Waiting to be filled,
Waiting to fill it.
White, pure-
Black, defiled-?
Waiting for what
Sweet caresses
That pen gives
It's mark.
Scouring, taunting,
Scraping, marring
The pure face and
Making it into a
Thing of – naught.
The most intimate of
Caresses – of lovers
Bed and tangled sheets
Falling over and over
Each other like a
Waterfall's continuous
Rushing of time –
Nay – its very hour of need.
Harken, for that hour
Draws close at
Hand and the wielder
Blows a puff of
Of air and words come
Forth.
The paper; sweet, now
Covered in loves
Marks, like teeth
Upon the neck;
Conceives and concept
Is born out of
What might have
Been… boredom,
… convulsions,
… why, any
Number of sweet
-abnormalities.
To make and mar are
The same thing and
To love and gain
One's own sweet
Release through
Another's suffering
Is good – however,
If that other used
The first for their
Own sweet
Release in any
Amount of suffering
it is not just good.
That is well.
For the paper may
Or may not enjoy
The grate upon
It's blankness –
But – when it's
All done…
It's better for it.