The Blank Page

I sat there with an empty page,
My bright blue crayon in my hand,
The red line at the side that can't be broken,
And the little black lines that tell us where to write.
Miss always wanted us to write our best,
She told us never to write past the red line,
If you didn't do it right you had to start again,
And always to write on those little black lines.

I sit here now in front of the blank sheet,
My blue ball-point pen looming ominously over the page,
That red line is simply a guide, it is not impenetrable anymore,
Those faint black lines merely show us where we can write,
Not where we should.

Miss, has long since gone, as have all the teachers,
There are no rules, or margins or lines,
If we mess up now we can't get another piece of paper,
Every letter, that is written on our page
Is written in undying ink, a deep crimson stain across the page.