Ah, the first page of a new sketchbook,
Filled with boundless opportunities and dead-ends,
Completely devoid of the blue jailhouse of recommended lines,
Lacking both rhyme and reason that might temper its peace,
This white page of firsts is sheer seduction.
Its seemingly innocent purity
Pulls the pencil to it’s flesh,
And in the artist’s impatience
Leads to the devastation of the beginning.
In the end, it is still but a simple piece
Of pure white paper,
A symbol now a lover’s last breath,
By a few simple words.
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