The Whiteboard

I am blank.
Always sitting
Waiting for someone to write on me.
For someone to spread their thoughts and ideas
Onto my shiny, smooth surface.
I love when ink seeps out of the marker
As it glides across
From corner to corner
Up and down
Forming strange shapes and lines
They call ‘words'.
And at the end of the day
I am erased.
With one swipe of a cloth
A cloth that contains remnants of long lost thoughts and beliefs
From that day
Have disappeared.
And then I wait
I wait until they return.

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