I Am This Page


As I board the train, I begin writing about what I see, hear & feel.
My letters become words, words become sentences, and before you know,
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.
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've guessed that I had anything in common with a mere 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, 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 this page.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem