Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Stationary

I had a thought that my words were not my own.
But, who’s are they? Who else is sitting here typing,
Wondering who’s writing down these thoughts.
And is it allowed to say them aloud?
Who’s in charge of who says what when to whom?
Not me, my words are not my own.
My words are not for me,
They are for you.
I give them to you, free and clear.
Enjoy them. Please. I don’t want them anymore once they come out.
Spilling across the page like wet, warm liquid,
Soaking up the paper and devouring it.
The paper is what I want,
Crisp, clean, unused, ready to be written,
Always, I have loved stationary,
For as long as I can remember,
Pen Pals,
hours spent looking at the stationary in the drug store,
All the different kinds,
Thicker, thinner,
Floral, Festive,
Fun.
Paper-clean, white ready to be used.
It’s going away,
Paper is..
Soon.

Think of me as a piece of paper,
Crisp, clear, ready to be written,
That is what I want to be,
Just a piece of paper,
Waiting for your masterpiece.
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