It once was white, when it was born;

Out of a tree, cut into life.

Got some soft skin, prone to be'ng torn;

Throughout the world, its use so rife.

Its better half, but when it finds,

It's skin once white, turns into black.

Bearing those marks, born from one's mind.

Talks with no sound, art in its sack.

And when eyes meet, this thin white sheet;

One's story passed, to other's heart.

Carrying those feelings as a fleet;

To soul, adding a missing part.

But if were one's hand busy so,

To write, no value this sheet holds.