The Book with Blank Pages

I am a book, but not on a typewriter’s page.

Pull me from a shelf and you’ll find 6,547 pages purged of all ink. 6,547 days absolved of history’s chaotic signature, once scribbled from the rise of a margin to the setting of the other.

One may try to decipher the unfilled chapters, searching for my plot or hints to my resolution

but the vanilla space faithfully resonates.

.

My narrative begins entirely on the page of today,

freshly laminated with the dew of life,

teeming with phenomenal colors that swirl among each word,

gracefully sketching objectives for episodes to come

before it too joins the mass of antiquity.

 

The novel may be reviewed as mundane, muddled with inactivity and maddening mystery.

Yet the cleansing of the print allows for an accurate design.

While entries of the past certainly have forged an altered character, they do not define my story.

The vast collection once preserved within my bindings constructs me no longer.

 

The harsh reprimands that led to gasps for breath.

The solitary nights left to hopeful ignorance of throbbing bruises.

The innocence of a dress forcibly crushed onto a sullied floor.

The sweet numbnesses only delivered through lighters and twist tops.

The countless inaudible outcries, shrieking to be heard through a muzzle of powerlessness.

 

The recounts now live on merely as memories in the mind of my author.

The blank pages remain not for deliberate mystery, nor utter confusion, but for precise clarity.

 

I am not to be read by endurances nor surrenders, euphoria nor distresses, nor by profit nor debt.

The manuscript written in history is that of a former novel with an deformed table of contents that distorts my conclusion and disfigures interpretations of my foundation.

My ongoing memoir is only truthfully understood when read from the page of the now,

judged on paragraphs of today, and envisioned by my drafts for future chapters.

 

I am more than a series of stone hieroglyphics.

I am more than what I have been through.

I am more than what I have done.

I am an ever changing story,

an ever evolving being.

 

I am the book with blank pages.

 
This poem is about: 
Me
Guide that inspired this poem: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments