The words,

Just ink blots,

Staining the whiteness and newness,

Staining the purity of the paper,

Changing it forever.

The words,

The ink you cannot wash,

As it dried while you didn't notice,

The change is permanent.

If you don't like it, you'll rip it to shreds,

And throw it away.

The words,

The words you wish you had said,

The ones that would have changed things,

All wasted on that poor piece of paper,

And it didn't deserve that ending.

Torn to pieces,

Damaged beyond repair.