In the eastern side of my room
There are pages of written on paper.
They hide one another.
They slumber there covered
Like layers of lovers.
Each sheets words are gloved by another.
If I were to lift them one by one,
I would meet lines of language,
Spiking out at me
Asking me to read them.
But I do not need their suggestions.
Because I prefer the blank sheet of next week,
To those long completed, that neatly deplete me.
This page will soon join the fibrous melee,
In the eastern side of my room.
When I write some new words of what shall be,
Once I escape this pages cocoon.
- Ella Mai