Empty pages that stare back,

So pure and clean,

Untainted with words,

And the markings of my imagination.

Was that not how I was before?

Ignorant, and in bliss

Not caring for the world.

But the times have changed,

And there is no escape.

There is nothing pure,

And nothing is sure,

Except for the fact that Death,

Whenever he may choose,

Will come knocking for our soul.

Then what will be left?

A memory once sweet,

Forever tainted with bitter defeat?

A story that will never be told?

The broken souls forever in the cold?

No, the pure will not exist,

For perfection is the problem.

We try so hard to be what others want,

Rather than what we want in our hearts.

So here is my mark, My inkling that taints,

Marring the fresh surface of the page.

Now looking at what I have done,

Here is my mind, and soul.

In these pages are the stories

Thant no one wanted to tell,

That were meant for me,

My reality.

This is my paper heart,

Take it and tear it apart

. Someone will care for it,

That much I know,

Cause paper hearts

Will forever grow.