Blank... my pages once were,
bare but were beautiful,
no marks and no scars,
not taken..and not torn.
Untouched, fresh... spotless... unfilled... unmarked.
But then page by page, the pages turned,
and let the ink stain my life's notebook.
Stripping it of its fresh life... purity... naivety.
Couldn't I stop it?
Can I go back to sleep and wake up one day to find that
once again I have gone blank... unmarked? Can that be?