bulletin board

when you first buy a bulletin board,

it is blank.

just a plane of cork

bordered by a wooden frame.

bland, boring, and wholly pure,

it is shaped into art.

it is molded and carved

with pictures and pins to hold them up.

does that hurt?

to be poked so many times?

over and 

over and 

over and 

over and

held in place?

suspended on the wall,

the bulletin board sits.

it takes all it can

and gives only a display

of the jumbled mess it is.

it is messy, disorganized,

but there's something for everyone.

every eye goes somewhere else,

each journey across it is unique.

everyone loves the bulletin board.

its flesh is prodded,

its mind is destroyed,

its heart is shredded

by the constant additions.

it holds memories,

it holds ideas,

it holds random pieces of trash

found on the side of the road somewhere.

when does the bulletin board

get to stop displaying?

it doesn't.

it is always remodeling,

becoming a new version of itself.

is it deluxe yet?

is it limited edition?

is it on sale?

how many times does it have to adjust?

as long as it needs to.

but it doesn't need to.

it could be blank forever,

if only it had the choice.

maybe it would add its own memories,

its own ideas,

maybe some red string,

if it decides to become an actor.

if only it had them to add in the first place.

because a bulletin board can't truly feel.

it feels in pictures, it lives in pins,

and even though it speculates,

it isn't truly alive.

it was produced

to be inanimate. 

and so it is.