To Be Pure
I wanted to write down exactly what I feel,
Everything that has been cooped up and locked away
Inside the deepest, darkest part of my soul,
But somehow the paper stayed empty
And I couldn’t have described it any better.
No.
This is what I am feeling now, I thought,
As I stared at the blank sheet.
White, a blanket of pure untainted white;
A white that seems to contain all the possible shades of colors
Blended into a color on its own,
But also a white that is as bare and plain
As a desert devoid of any living organisms.
I raised the pencil to the paper once again,
To write down my twisted thoughts;
Thoughts pregnant with emotion, with secrets, and with heaviness.
But I can’t do it.
To taint and stain the beauty of this blankness,
That carried more inspiration than I could ever summon,
With the color of my burdens seemed to feel like a crime.
I set the pencil down.
The clatter of plastic echoed throughout the silence.
The paper stays blank
And this blankness is exactly what I feel.
