the mind's recesses

Paper

A black piece of paper,
Shying away from destruction.
Or begging for the pencil
To act as an obstruction.
Absent of markings,
Except a few lines
To guide us on our pathways -
If we ever find the time.

Delicate and grooved,
Very easily broken.
Be careful with the paper,
Don't let their hurting happen.
But when we rip it into pieces
The edges, soft and frayed,
Watch us in their horror
And their pain of being played.

Or perhaps we pick up our pen
And fleeting thoughts we write.
It's just a surface for the flash
Of a concept come to light.
And as we apply the ink
And the notion builds and grows,
The paper is disregarded.
How it feels? Well, no one knows.

Or maybe we will colour
And paint and sketch and draw.
Making up a masterpiece
And we'll pick out every flaw.
But the paper is our concrete,
Our foundation and our muse.
Treat it a little better:
You have nothing to lose.