Like the pounding of each key of a type writer that penetrates the paper and leaves it's mark imprinted on a canvas; Each mistake imbedded on the page so well that not even white out can fully erase it.
The piece has been struck by ink so deeply that it will only seem to make the error disappear; It remains; a stain but the typing continues.
With each misplaced finger this page seems wasted by over marked flaws and here no delete key exists; left in this dark room, pouring heart on page. Your options; keep covering the mistakes or you can simply rip the page out of it's slider and in frustration tear it to shreds because you think all who read it will look through the words; eyeing each carefully covered mark to investigate the flaw that lies beneath. No vision of the beautiful poetry that has always remained on the surface. So worried about the white out that you miss the beauty that took it's place.
Depth can be the beast but it can also be the beauty that loved beyond the surface of the man to see his heart. Your story is the ink, the white out and the poetry and your life is the page; so keep typing.


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