The blank page is something of beauty.
It's unmarked and clean.
Somehow though, people destroy you.
Line by line.

People remind me of paper sheets sometimes.
We are born clean and pure
And by the time we are old,
We're covered in lines - outside and inside.

I never claimed to know much
About cleanliness of the human soul.
But I know one thing -
We can't stay pure forever.

And the blank pages of our souls
Become scribbled on and tattered
By other humans - especially the ones we love.
But we try our hardest - to not turn black.

I'd like to say that my blank page
Is whole and unmarked, but that would be a lie.
Because you're the one who turned it black.
And you're the one I'm never getting back.