Listen.

My pen bleeds on this band-aid of a paper. Call me a paper waster. And you bet when I crumple this paper up and throw it away, I won't recycle. I don't want my words to travel this vicious cycle. The never ending circle of being written, stolen, reused, abused, reclaimed, given a new name, given a new author, and signed by a label. Because this is my work written with my pen and paper. I'm a paper waster.