My letters become words, words join together to form sentences, and before you know it; my paragraph begins

to
leap
off
the
page.
As I sit, it becomes clearer that I am this page.
The more I write, the more lines go through the words, getting rid of them
simply because they didn’t make the cut.
They weren’t good enough.
This was not the place for them.
They did not belong.
I begin to laugh
at the fact that we are so similar.
Who would have guessed that I had anything in common with this – a page?
The mere thought is absurd, at best.
Yet the more I write, the more I see that this is true.
I couldn’t hand in my paper this way, no not like this.
It’s not presentable.
Too many mistakes, it won’t be accepted.
It’s not up to standard.
Again, I laugh.
I am this page.
No, I can’t let certain things show, else
society would reject me.
I have to be a wooden frame, delicate and polished.
No one will ever know what I went through to get here,
Excepting, of course, those that helped make me into what I am.
There is nothing left to remind me of my former self.
All that is left is a refined frame.
Beautiful. Acceptable.
Again I laugh.
I smile.
We are one and the same.
Would you believe it?
I am wood.
I am this page.