there's no such thing as empty pages.
in a single sheet there are worlds
waiting to be discovered,
questions waiting to be answered
and people I wish that I could be.

Colored paper fool.
Crowing coward face the waif.
Gaze of hungry eyes.

A flutter of white against stained-oak desk
laying in wait, it anticipates
the first mark on blank surface
dots, loops, lines, inscribed representations
to illustrate unseen curiosities
to anchor their essence into the visible
for you and I to perceive.

No paper has no folds. Look closer and it will be apparent;
A crease, hidden beneath its purported smoothness—
Though blatant once told of, a fool, sir, will not see it patent,
And seizes within a denial of but his faulted blindness.

No paper is of even thickness. Feel it and it will be known;
A bump, then a sudden thinness somewhere on it—
So whether his benevolence hides it, he hides it from his own,
And dumb as he may’ve been, will never confess of it.

No paper is of ideal quality. The fact cannot be denied;
No man can ever craft a sheet of paper beyond half-perfect—
And thus, sir, do accept readily, for it has to be resigned, that
Likewise, no man is of perfect character, nor hasn’t defect.