Damn you
Paper.
Damn you.

White.
Upon white.
Upon white.

Crisp
And pristine.
Fair and
Unblemished.

Go out and
Get yourself dirty,
Will ya’?

Get a tattoo.

An urge is building
To level
Strikeovers
Across your barren face –

To inflict you with
Re-dos, and
Cross outs and
Eraser marks
That might
Wear you through
In places.

Deal with it.

I want your
Wrinkles and bruises
To show.

Fingerprints.
Sticky fingerprints
And smudges too.
I want them all
Upon your field
With a careless spill,
A tear stain and spittle
Pocking that
Shiny white bright.

Think of yourself
Differently, from now on.

You’re not some
Precious heirloom
To be primped,
Coiffed,
And locked away.

You’re a warrior.
And this is a bloody business.

Damn you paper.
Damn you.

And you lay there.
Virginal.
With so little to say.

Blank Page
Mark Pearce (c) 2009