If only we were a drawing on paper,
Or words that are simply drafted and written.
If only we were written as easily as with a pencil,
Constantly changing with shift of thought and direction.
If only we were erased as easily as with a rubber,
Sitting on the desk, neglected and undercover.
If only our mistakes we could easily disown,
Like a paper crumpled and thrown.
If only our life was as smooth and fine,
Drawn with pen, from start to finish line.
If only this, and only that,
But alas, stuck is what we are at.