My life's nothing but a splotch of black ink
Dripped onto a pure white sheet of paper.
The darkness spreads quite quicker than you think,
And soon the pure white begins to taper.

It's too late for the sheet to try and run,
For its once untouched face is now undone,
And all the white seems to be gone, although,
The ink, though dark, can help it shine like snow.

By reshaping the black slip from ruin,
The ink and paper make me more human.


m.k.j