My blank stare reflects off
The linen white paper,
Stiffened and dulled to a
Blind state of boredom.
A texture, minute, barely detectable,
Plays on its surface,
So naked and bland,
'Til the ink from my pen
Finds it's voice and it's
Story flows on to the page
Like the rush of the tides,
Creating a tale of marvelous
Detail, splendid adventure
To share one and all.
Should the lily-white paper resist
The disfigurement?
Would it fair better to
Keep itself pure?
Life is a story which
Cannot be told until
Black ink and white paper
Learn to endure.
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