There is something absolutely wonderful about a blank piece of paper
Simple at the very least, it sits expectantly for touch
Its every clean inch is a possibility for perfection
My mind searches its many cavities for the best way to enhance the paper-
obviously inspired by its clean,plain, beauty
Impatiently I put pen to paper and I am let down by anything short of a miracle
The numerous possibilities and this is what I have chosen for my addition?
I am infuriated by every scribble
ashamed of every stray mark
I grow to hate the paper and my hand for scarring it
I have taken something perfect and led it to imperfection
It has my struggles and myself messily stamped across its surface
My personality and my thoughts haphazardly spewed onto its body
I have done nothing but create an abomination to all paper
I've vandalized its wisdom
made a fool of its wonderful emptiness
I have created a monster
I have made an individual
I have made this paper unique
This paper is no longer perfect
This paper is pain
This paper is flaw
The paper, well, this paper is art.