I am a blank page.
Blank,
empty, bare, stark naked.
But
I am not destitute in my emptiness,
I
am not vacant, nor am I a waste.
Scribbled
thoughts of those precious meanderings,
Ink-stains
of a poet's soul,
Tears
of a memory, kisses of trembling love,
I
bear the burden and weigh of pure words.
Am
I hollow still?
Not
a dot on me, yet I am your best company.
You
come to me for those getaways of relief,
You
turn to me for those vents of pain,
You
fall back on me for those furious expressions.
And
you keep me pristine, you keep me divine,
You
keep me covered in glasses of your steely shine.
Do
you find me forsaken?
Questions
of befuddlement, candid confessions of wild desire,
Answers
to feared voices loud, and a cooling sheath to a raging fire-
You
put pen to me, and you make love to me.
Passion,
gritty passion.
You
look up to me, and you can't set me free.
Selfish,
they say. But is this not love?
You
abandon me too.
They
all do. The best of them do.
Crumpling
me with miseries of yore,
Soaking
me in layers of shallow skin-
Gnawing,
gnashing, biting off every bit of me.
Bearing
the brunt, shedding a silent tear,
I
move on, and I stay on.
I
stay. Don't I?
I
am a blank page,
But
I am not you.
I
am an empty sheet,
And
I am every bit of me.
