As these words scratch themselves upon this blank surface, my canvas,
I wonder, rather childishly, if this piece of paper can feel it?
Does it make sense of my prose, and perhaps think on it?
Would it cry it's black tears of ink, if this were to end tragically,
Hypothetically by the balling of the paper, and tossing away?
Dearest Piece of Paper, thank you for your patience.
Without you, I would be scribbling this nonsense into the sand,
Only to be ravaged, washed away, by the waves of time,
But these lines stand un-effected, protected by the databanks.
How lucky I am, how we are, to save it from such fate.
I know the case is, though, that this Paper doesn't feel.
It doesn't offer me it's condolences, or urge me to finish.
It would be immensely helpful, if it did, though.
The ragged edges of the lined notebook paper
Wouldn't be as polite as my prim and proper printer paper.
That is just my sleep-deprived philosophizing.
I very highly doubt that this ode to this Piece of Paper
Will receive the grade that the Paper wishes for,
For reconciliation of my printing, and waking it in the wee hours of the morning.
About midnight, I would presume, for the digital clock is on strike.
The instructions called for complex stanza structure,
So I have mixed up the lines, and now I do not feel like counting them.
I will simply write my musings, via keyboard, to the screen,
To the paper, until I think it will suffice.
I hope that this is enough, for my wish to sleep
Is stronger than my will to achieve a good mark.
(As stated, this was for an English project. Ick.)
