A blank page is worse
Than any written word,
Because every sentence
Is a piece of a soul,
Even when it doesn’t seem
Like it glows in the dark.
For ideas can spill
From graphite or ink,
In a peculiar mess
That can be manipulated
Into something as beautiful
As the galaxies in the night.
And those galaxies
Are ever changing
In the blackened sky,
Creating and destroying,
All in the same breath,
Which blows out stardust
Into forgotten places
That the naked human eye
Was never able to see.
And an idea is more descriptive
Than hundreds of thousands
Of the most stunning images
That a photographer
Could ever capture,
Because it is rather a reverse
Of a saying that has been
Put in place for years.
Because a word speaks
A million pictures,
Only within the span
Of a few simple syllables
As visions flood the mind
In sounds unspoken,
But rather heard
By open hearts.
But none of this exists
On meaningless, untouched paper,
Because each written journey
Can never be completed
Until a pencil or pen
Scars the universe
With a single stroke.
People that Never Existed 