TABULA RASA

when my eyes first opened
my mind was a blank
sheet of paper yet to be
written on by experience.

oh, the blankness.
how it loomed over me
how it dulled my pencils
and broke my crayons.

but purity is fleeting
and so was my innocence
a soft snowflake falling
to the slush-brown ground.

one day i awoke and found
my paper crammed away
in a dark drawer. i ask
myself, is this the same sheet?

it is covered in scribbles,
graffiti that seeps through,
and on the other side,
backwards writing reminds me
just how far we've come.

these are memories
that are not my own,
ideas that are foreign to me,
thoughts, implanted in my head
and disguised as my own.

others write on my piece of paper,
my 'blank slate', in permanent ink.
but you learn quickly in this transient
life: nothing is permanent.

philosophy is my paintbrush.
even though i am given only
one colour, i dip my brush into
the paint bucket of knowledge
and paint my own picture.

©Copyright 2004 Sheila Cook.