Scratch Paper (Re-Post)

I am written upon by many hands
With which crooked fingers grasp
A metal-pointed plastic inked tube,
Or one cylindrical wood with lead.

You hurt me like I’m without value
As people plot the numeric digits;
Countless empty words not meant;
Their wrong strokes and sketches.

Though my rugged skin you pained,
Still I love you as on me I let you pen
Every note of humbling gratitude;
All apologies and Valentine clichés.

Yet even if I give you hidden formulas
In many of your uneasy calculus tests,
I’m torn, crumpled, and thrown away.
Now I feel worse than toilet-wipes.