I find meaning in the air that I breathe;
It is food for the flowers.
And meaning in my footsteps
that bring death to spiders.
In my hands is money for poor beggars,
In my head is a realm of questions and answers.
Every part of me is the holder of some small fate.
I wasn't thrown together on a whim.
My existence carries a lot of weight.
Who is anyone to call me a blank slate?
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Comments about this poem (Blank Slate by Bianca Free )
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