Notebook Poetry

Stuff that I occasionally write. By all means feel free to tell me I'm a terrible poet.

A Blank Page

A blank page
White, unscarred
Waiting for the caress of pen and ink
To weave upon it's clear surface
A history, lines, stories
Between it's crisp lines, lives are lived
Loves are loved, battles are fought
Sometimes, it's pages are graced by the paintbrush
The coarse hairs forming, on the white background
A heaven of emotion and light
Each stroke as bright and meaningful as a thousand pages of script
But when the paint flows not, still on goes the pen
Forming lines that, alone, mean nothing
But together, can make men weep, make nations rise, free the enslaved
In unison, our words form and break power
They can make love bloom, or hatred fester and explode
We enchant, entrance and entice with our letters

Pages can remember, through the simple magic
Of lead and ink, more than our simple minds
Who's electric sparks form and fade quicker than a heartbeat
Men forget, but the pressed, dead trees
Hold their information secure, ready to be passed
To the next inquisitive mind that pursues their pages

Long after man has gone, his works will stay
Challenging the universe to produce another
Worthy of our legacy, terrible though it might be
Though the stars might outshine us, they write not
And so their knowledge is lost in each fiery death
Not passed on, not retained
And thus, as the die, the die entirely

The End

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