I run my fingers over the blank sheet
But the lines remain.
I keep feeling pricks of pain;
The blood welling up
Yet I don’t stop -
My fingers continue to smooth it down,
The pain irrelevant to the greater task.
I tried doing it slowly and carefully,
But to no avail.
Furiousness only made more wrinkles.
Wet blotches appear on the page,
My fingers halt mid-stroke,
Unsure of what to do.
How am I supposed to get rid of these stains?
They will eventually dry
But will never truly disappear -
Anyone who comes close enough will see them there.
Maybe I should just dispose of this,
Start again anew,
But why kill another tree?
No, I will not stop,
I will not give up,
There is hope yet,
Nothing is impossible.?
And with that said,
My fingers start again
At trying to recover the true form of the paper.