Some mornings,
I sit motionless with a fixed gaze at a blank page.
My restless mind wanders,
and the page senses deceit in my attention.
Whether this white, unwrinkled page wants to remain blank or to be filled, who knows?
I’ve never asked a page before.
I selfishly scribble on innocent pages, believing someone will relate to it.
Some evenings,
I sit nervously and stare at pages filled with sugar-coated words.
Whether these soiled pages wanted to be written on or become paper boats that could have swum miles in a drain, who knows?
I didn’t ask the pages.
I just wanted to write some complex verses for escapists.
Some nights,
I lie on my bed and read the letter I received from an admirer.
I’ve never reciprocated her feelings.
Whether the colourful page (letter) wanted to soak tears of a one-sided lover or become a wedding card, who knows?
She didn’t ask the beautiful page.
She just wanted a little love for herself.
Her feelings were snug on the damp, warm page.
I sit motionless with a fixed gaze at a blank page.
My restless mind wanders,
and the page senses deceit in my attention.
Whether this white, unwrinkled page wants to remain blank or to be filled, who knows?
I’ve never asked a page before.
I selfishly scribble on innocent pages, believing someone will relate to it.
Some evenings,
I sit nervously and stare at pages filled with sugar-coated words.
Whether these soiled pages wanted to be written on or become paper boats that could have swum miles in a drain, who knows?
I didn’t ask the pages.
I just wanted to write some complex verses for escapists.
Some nights,
I lie on my bed and read the letter I received from an admirer.
I’ve never reciprocated her feelings.
Whether the colourful page (letter) wanted to soak tears of a one-sided lover or become a wedding card, who knows?
She didn’t ask the beautiful page.
She just wanted a little love for herself.
Her feelings were snug on the damp, warm page.
***
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