I like how
the paper
has its purpose,
but of which only
lead and ink
can fulfill.

A piece of paper
is just another blank slate,
waiting for a miracle,
waiting for life to leak
into the lines of its veins.

Just waiting for
words,
ideas,
doodles and sketches
poems, puns
works of art
Just waiting
for the meaning to its existence.

But little do we know
that the paper
is its purpose;
to create something
out of nothing;
to give life
to the lifeless.

Paper,
is everything like
opportunities given
to us,
and most of all
how we make of it.
_______

I like how
we have a purpose
but of which only
will and work
can fulfill.

And I am,
like any other I will be
just another blank slate
waiting for a miracle,
waiting for life
to flow in my veins.

Just waiting for
words,
meaning;
a purpose.

But little do I know
that I am my own purpose
to make something
out of nothing,
to give meaning to something
meaningless.

Yet, my life
is everything like
wasted opportunity,
bad ideas
on crumpled papers,
torn, shred
and thrown away.

I do not know who
I really am.

Whether I am just
another notebook
to jot important things down,
assignments, homework
or just some
stupid doodles and
useless words
on stanza.

I don’t even know
where I stand now.

I am just
another piece of paper
a purpose, unknown
of which
hopes and dreams
won’t fulfill.