Is there anything as beautiful
As a piece of paper?
There it lies,
Waiting patiently,
For your pen to mark it,
For the very first time.
A metaphor?
A metaphor.
A great one,
For the way our lives all go.
We'll start each day,
Like a sheet of brand new paper.
The turn of the notebook page,
Signifying the dawn of a new day.
The start of a new notebook,
Being the start of a new chapter in our lives.
They come together to make a book,
Which we may title with our name.
And we're just one of many,
But still unique in our own way.
The paper shows how we start fresh,
Clean, if you may,
And sometimes there'll be a marks that
Are predetermined,
But we learn to live with them.
And in the end,
The paper can be both
A mess to some,
And beautiful to others.
But it's still
Our story,
And when our life ends,
When the last notebook is filled,
It will come to be all we have,
And all we've ever had.
Our story can go on,
Leading to great things,
Being reused to aid in someone else's,
Or perhaps forgotten all together.
But it's still there,
And it's still us,
And parts of it,
Surely,
Will be featured in another's story.
Because life is like a sheet of paper,
And we are both the pen,
And the sheet we write on.
Other people's pens will sometimes mark us,
And we will sometimes mark theirs.
But in the end,
Our blank paper
Will have become something,
Something more complex.
Something grand,
Something meek,
Something strong,
And something weak,
Something beautiful,
Something ugly,
Something painful,
Something happy,
Something true,
And something fiction,
Something old,
And something new.
Something.