I'm just a sheet of paper
Yes, that's what I am
Plain, white and blank
That's what I look to you
Until...yes, I say until
I'm picked up,and scribbled on.
That's when I wake up
And become alive
Alive to speak back to you
To you, the writer, famous or unheard.
Once woken up, I dislike to be put back to sleep
I love when someone beautifies me
With skill and sincerity
The tenderness a lover writes through me
Sometimes make me want to blush
And when I'm written on in a place of war
While uncertainty and fear of death throttle the lovers' souls
I become the lifeline for those two aching hearts
And probably a page of memoir for later use.
Oh, how many sighs I've heard
And how many tears have I sipped
It truly wrenches my thin sheet of body
To look upon the saddened face of my writer.
Then, there are those who write on me with so much passion
A passion that sets me ablaze
Some make me want to sing and sway my body
To the rhythm of music they write on me
If I could, I'd surely bow my head(I mean roll up the sheet)
To the prayers and devotionals written in reverence
And I beam with pride when the work written upon me
Make it to the publisher and becomes a page of a book
Script of a play, or a scene in a movie.
But, until someone picks me up
And pens me with something
I remain just a thin sheet of paper
Plain, blank and white!
(Published in Fellowscript in May 2007.)
Poets out there, bear with me for my poetry writing.