Tabula Rasa

Bound by fragile fibers,

Laden with leaves and spun hemp,

Frayed and chipping,

A journal too delicate

To hold my thoughts.

New journal,

It’s name: Composition Book,

Smooth and invincible

A botched Escher design

Black and white,

Too ordinary

To bind my intricate philosophies.

Sketch book,

Off white paper

Spiral bound,

Small enough to carry, 

Too thin to soak up my tears.

Canvas,

A gift from my mother,

Woven fibers gessoed,

A blank slate for free expression,

Too permanent

For the consistency of change.

I cannot be contained.