A Poet's Payment Poem by Airda Jones

So thin a sheet, paper that was once
At a time part of more than now
Hand picked and hacked to become
Of a better use somehow

Have I the right to claim you
To say that my ink can stain
When it really was not me
The one who rightfully obtained

Your mother branched out far and wide
Offering a greater sacrifice than desired
The freedom taken and the life stolen
No more to reach her arms any higher

Her skin ripped from her bones
Ground into pulp to create anew
Pressed to a conforming thin layer
And that, paper, is why I have you

May I claim you for my own purpose
To firmly write the tangible words
Give your mother a final chance to find pride
By becoming your true worth.