When the pen strikes paper,
must it always leave a stain?

I'd much rather make a paradise
so real you know you're dreaming,
a light-hearted place with even sad men laughing
and girls who speak in simple phrases,
or sing wordless songs by the waterfall.

Euphoria would spread like wildfire,
soul and soul consumed and flaring brighter.
Naturally, every pretty pair of lips would be seeking yours,
yet no one would dare glare daggers at the competition.

A year would last a lifetime.
And at the end of each,
you could choose to live it over again.

Alas, however,
   for when I write
   there are only stains
   that spider outward from my pen,
   lines of pollution on otherwise pure paper,
   and a dream that's always shattered.