I am not a virgin, but I am still pure.
I am not a warrior, still, I'm fighting a war.
Ink against white paper, stained and beautiful.
I am an outsider but my heart is still full.
I am the moss against the aspen's shake,
Hear the quiver, feel the shiver from the coming breeze.
The imperfections stay: standing, falling, fallen:
The constant in-constants of the trees.
I need not be a virgin to have a clean soul.
I can be a flaw and I can be beautiful.
I am more than paper, a blank and empty page,
I'm the story within: the ink, blots, and stains.