The lines are intimidating,
They radiate blue perfection from the page,
Throbbing in the fluorescent light,
Waiting for you to ruin their beauty.
They long for the pencil grey marks,
Or the black, red, blue, rainbow ink that stains them.
The smudges from the left handed writers,
The eraser marks from the perfectionists,
The crumpled, torn, shredded life of OCDs.
Yes, they yearn for that break from the monotonous,
Waiting until the words printed on it fade.
Because nothing stays forever and perfection always mars.
