Paradox of the Blank Page

This is more of philosophy than poetry

1

it is expected to be white,

to entail nothing but light

yet its is cold like ice,

proving us again unright.

provoking does it sound

that what is deemed immaculate

and a well shaped round

is just a victim we overrate.

so which is blank:

the empty room with no doors

or the wall so dank

with graffiti of colours?

the room harbours a message;

i am right.

the wall displays a  message:

i'm not white.

the room says:

i am  so empty

on the wall lays;

i am everything

2

so which is blank:

a white piece of paper 

buttered with ink

or a white piece of paper?

like a game with rules,

a trick with a ruse,

a riddle with clues,

a paper spattered with juice

such is that which is blank.

it never absents knowlege

from wisdom's own tank,

neither does it give you edge

nor improve one's rank.

it might contain characters

but it is just an act

that in the end falters

in revealing the true fact;

it offers what is known

in lieu for the truth,

which you claim to own

till you get to the root.

to be blank or plain

is to espouse no meaning,

come the sun or rain

but still show no leaning;

the basis of confusion,

the onus of illusion,

the bane of perfection,

the tool of education.

               

in the beginning before the end

we wish to be scribbled on by the ink

which betrays and at the same time befriend

 so as to impede the way we think.

                             think deep

Author's Note

This poem is meant to be highly thought provoking