There’s something therapeutic about a blank page.
A stack of blank pages, therefore,
Becomes a stack of strange therapy.
Bind them up and pile them one on top of the other,
Dog-eared pages and frayed edges and bent wire spirals
Eating up the blankness,
And you’ve built a person.

A single, systemized aisle sets up therapists
To face each other. They look, and look,
Until the right person, biting fingernails
Or wiping paint off of skin, or
Snapping crayons in half
Walks off with one.

Sketchbooks warm you like
Security blankets embrace children
Blankets suffocate fears under forts,
Capes, ribbons, and cloaks.
Sketchbooks similarly
Staunch your fear.

You are never isolated,
Because you carry a sketchbook
Everywhere.
And it knows every time you’ve been
Scared, or sad, or angry –
Or happy.
Because, unknowingly, you told it.

For the Ancients, they were encyclopedias.
Employed throughout history, the sketchbook
Implicated many “Medias”.
The caves, the papyri, the tapestries of old,
Linger, if one would but
Search.

In sketchbooks, Grimoires take form.
Flipping through pages, one finds
The ways to control the heart,
The mind, the essence
Of you.

In His sketchbook, God created Earth.
He built you up from nothing but
Paper.
And He watched
You become God
Penciling in World after World
Wielding sketchbooks in your wake.

Hide away the aged fractals of your soul
And after centuries, you may disappear,
But others will find
The Worlds you forged

On a blank page.