Full of scribbles and ink blots and spelling mistakes
The caricatures of a child
Dancing across the lines,
Breathing life into the book.
A comment here, a questions there
Words spilling over pages;
A future all planned out
As perfect as a fairy tale
Rated "G" for "all ages".
A little gloomy.
The scene changing drastically,
Words weaving themselves into poisonous webs
Which spread across the pages.
The innocent scribbles of a child
Withering away to nothing more
Than lethargic lines trailing over the pages.
Page twenty onward,
My adolescent years
All crumpled, ripped and slashes
With little mercy.
The pages shriveled from the bitter cold
As autumn leaves
Without the rainbow colour.
And any detail
Washed away by a monsoon of tears
With bloody scars Leaving crimson trails.
Page twenty-nine, thirty
A breath of colour
A hint of rosy pink.
Hope peeks its fragile form
Between the lines and the letters
Eyes innocent, sanguine.
The lifeless pages slowly resurrect,
The loops drawn bigger and wider
Words longer and stronger,
Black ink seeping into the paper darker and deadlier.
A tide of emotion building over the pages and -
Page after page,
Blank, coloured a pristine white
Like freshly fallen snow.
Not a speck of dust or wrinkle present,
A perfect nothingness
Row after row.
I raise the quill above my rainbow palette
Afraid to choose the inapt shade of pastel green.
Beofre me is an artist's canvas
My present, that I begin to write
When I am nineteen.