Paper

This paper is so blank.

Why does it stare and glare at me?

Mocking me with its emptyness,

Maybe it wants to be tampered with?

To be trashed, splattered, and scribbled upon with graphite.

Perhaps all it wants is to have purpose,

Meaning.

And so it shall.

My pencil will make its mark.

And claim the paper as its own.

It will quickly make figures,

Filling the emptyness with lines and texture,

Turning this paper into a beautiful piece of art.

And now,

This paper has meaning.