To smell a solid, new, just freshly opened, stack of paper.
Sniffing, the perfecly neat pages standing before me.
They wait for my many dreams, thoughts, feelings, designs and heart
To be poured upon these beauties,
With ink, lead, paint, or even crayon.
What will each one wear one day?
A story, a poem, a picture, or a dream.
A story, a poem, a picture, or a dream.
All cut the exact same size,
None to look the same when I am done.
There is nothing finer than my Irreplaceable, paper.
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