Endless possibilities,
That give way to all greatness.
The same way those started off,
Whose words are treasured still,
In empty hearts,
Is the same way you start off.
With blank paper,
Staring at you,
Urging for you to make it memorable,
To make it worth something in the
Long run.
To give it life again,
After life had been taken away from
It.
It sits empty,
All by itself,
No heart to warm,
No soul bring to life again.
You watch it earnestly,
Wishing to meet it's wishes,
But you fear that your words,
Don't belong in the purity that it
Offers.
You fear that your words are not to Heal,
But to hurt,
But what you don't realise,
Is that everyone of us,
Is sketched with hurt,
And all of us drawn by fingers of
Love,
Painted with imperfections,
To turn into our own perfections.
So why do your words need to be
Perfect,
When perfection is not what we are?
Why does every verse have to rhyme,
In order to belong?
Our lives are perfect,
Perfect in it's imperfection.
The blank paper serves not to be
The best,
But to be it's best.
You need to pour your heart onto the
Pages,
Even if it runs like a waterfall of
Hatred and seething contempt,
You need to write to fill the empty
Space.
Anything,
Is better than nothing.
By the end of the day,
The goal is not for that paper,
To be as empty as it came,
What purpose would it then serve?
It needs to be filled,
Filled with anything at all,
As long as its pages,
Have a story to be told.
After all,
What greatness does a blank paper
Hold,
Compared to a paper,
Filled with imperfect words?
~n.s
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Justice
PoetryPoems... A place to escape to, to relate with. A world that is created with a single verse, and a universe that is created with a single stanza... Poetry...a place you can make your own.
