Part One: Plastic words are hard to say and almost never go away You - with the spade - put it down, toss it away. Plastic words are here to stay and in your grave will only wait in lay. "But the soil, it will bury" I hear you say, but my friend Your words are not of paper that will burn or of metal that will rust nor are your words made of fruit that the fly's will devour or of dust for the worms. Your words are made of plastic and so here they will stay. you can cover them, deface them, melt them but they will remain For plastic words may be hard to say but almost never go away. "Recycle? Reuse? Give them away?" I hear you search, your hand heavy on your brow Head to foot in dirt, the words haunt you now.
Part Two: I look at this pen that I brought One out of a pack for a quid it's identical to all the others yet only this pen will write this; A black biro made of plastic in a way I don't truly know how not made by the hand that wields it or any made of flesh and blood and bone and... I lack the equipment - the machine that will print it out for me Was this the design deemed perfect? for all? or one? Where is the original now, the cast that was made to copy by those plastic arms? what will happen to this pen when all the ink has left and gone this little thing of plastic, identical to all the rest Once upon a time, each pen was crafted by its writer who would have gathered a fallen feather, stripped it and Carved the nib to their individual style. Out of a flightless feather fallen to the ground breathing into it new life, new purpose. For words to fly. These plastic words, are they truly mine? Plastic words. They live on and on.
Written by Accalia Smith.
Accalia smith 