A child named Origami gazes at her own disguise.
A paper soul, forming herself, delicate and fine,
It began with gentle hands and curious eyes,
she folded herself into beauty, as you might define.
The intricate process, each crease and line,
Nobody ponders the effort it takes,
Marvelous to behold, a secret confined.
To mold her into the shape everyone adulates.
People gaze in awe, pleased with their molding feats,
when she returns to the quiet of home,
She unglues and moves her form like pleats.
Origami unfolds when she is alone.
Unraveling the layers, she lets go,
revealing the pieces hidden below.
No expectations, just paper and air,
A chance to be herself, without care.
Yet every day, the folds are re-imposed,
A repetition to mold her, over and over,
Lines becoming creases, her essence enclosed.
The once smooth surface now bears life’s scar.
Beautiful she stands, a visual delight,
For the joy of others, she sacrifices her grace,
Hiding scars beneath, out of everyone’s sight.
Enduring the folds, the bends hide her face.
Unfold the creases, if you dare,
The beauty persists, a testament true,
Reveal the scars, the burdens to bear.
strength in vulnerability is known by few.
Origami, a child of intricate art,
In the quiet folds, her soul concealed,
the folds hide her broken heart.
A paper soul, with wounds unhealed.
WoPoLi 
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