Lines Upon My Skin

Call me a blank piece of paper, 

Curse words that I’ve ran out of ink, 

Or worse, 

That I don’t deserve a pen.  

Tell me that my dictions wrong 

That my punctuation dosent deserve a spot 

Explain that I'm just a thing to be recycled 

That the lines on me are crooked  

That my spots are punched in the wrong order 

Tell me that I'll never amount to an essay or a doctrine 

That I'm nothing. 

That I'm blank with disgrace  

And covered of the fact that I'll never be enough 

Cover my bruises and insecurities with white out 

And place a fatly adjective on top 

Right a perfect sentence, 

When underneath the syntax, not even enough to be considered a phrase. 

I am a piece of paper. 

But, maybe... 

Maybe I'm also a masterpiece. 

Maybe I'm a colorful splash  

that amounts to Vincent Van Gogh painting  

To be seen and admired, 

Could be painted upon my sheets. 

I am a regular piece of paper 

To be written on by an inspirational author  

Or hell, my own words.

I am my own piece of paper.

I am my own Artist.

I am me.

                                                                                                                                      -S.L.D