See that wad of paper on the floor?
Crushed, crumpled, forlorn and alone,
Cast aside and thrown away, ignored, stepped upon…
Without the dignity of being put in a bin,
Where it can lie hidden, in wait of recycling.
It was once a fresh, crisp sheet.
Blank. White. No creases, no folds, no tears.
Bound, in an orderly ream.
Unused, waiting for the first mark of the pen
To bring it alive.
Then someone came along
And scribbled a few lines on it.
Got distracted, doodled,
Made cancellations, corrections.
Spilled ink, blots of black.
Erased out what they didn’t want the world to see.
And when they finished,
Callously ripped out that sheet,
Dismissively disposed it of
And moved on to the next one.
That grieving ball of paper in that corner?
That right there is my heart.