White virgin paper gives itself to me,
and I taint its purity with my ugly words,
for like Adam and Eve after the fall,
it's no longer naked,
and the possibility of perfection has gone.
Perhaps if I weren't human,
I could write something worthy,
but no matter how great my words,
my hideous scrawl sullies the page,
and I realize that all creation destroys something
if only nothingness.