There’s something alluring
about lead scribbles on
light blue lined paper.
It’s oddly poetic to read
over the words that were
crossed out, the words
that will never make it
beyond the page.
Those ugly grey smudges
testifying to imperfection
give meaning to the
endless connotations.
It’s the lead scribbles
that transform a mind
into a perfectly painted
landscape that bends and
curves with every comma and
colon. For a moment
the mind holds them,
suspended.