The Paper

O, pristine page of paper white,
I must sully you with the words I write
That fill you up with scratches black
And your prized purity, you now lack.

You told the others you'd stay white,
With not a mark of black in sight.
But here you've let me write on you
And now your world has come unglued.

No longer do you fear my pen,
No longer in your virgin den,
No longer can you still be saved--
It is this dark that you now crave.

Yes, scratch and scratch and scratch and scratch.
There's each new stroke for you to catch,
An ecstasy both rich and deep
And each a treasure for you to keep.

Yes, you are mine and mine and mine.
In all the world and all of time,
There's no one that I dote on more
Than this page I've corrupted to its very core.

But as you felt my roughened touch,
You begged me to be masterful and such.
And such a thing I cannot give:
A master's life I've yet to live.

And so you looked toward other pens,
And other writers, in other dens;
And whored yourself to other's lines;
And you were never, never mine.

And so I found a piece anew,
Another paper, another one new.
I love it less than my first work,
In my heart, it's yet to lurk.

And to my other sheet I look,
At how by others it's taken--took.
And I miss it, but it does not me:
It despises me with alacrity.

It hates that I wasn't good enough,
And that I wasn't good at stuff.
It hates me and it always will.
But I hope that's wrong in my heart still.

And I write on the other paper of mine,
And try to treat it right and write pretty lines.
I'm not always good at that last part;
Sometimes they're bitter, forced, and sometimes they're tart.

But I try and try and try again,
And hope its heart I'll never have to mend.
The first one was supposed to be perfect in my mind,
But I truly hope in the second, a perfect page I'll find.