Chicken Scratch

Some say that the art of an artist is theirs
Their art is the mark that their medium bears
Their skill is judged by the meaning it shares
But this system is hollow inside

For instance my art is of paper and pen
Of where words are written, of where pencil's been
But if I erase them, what of it then?
This blank, from your eyes does it hide

But does this mean my work doesn't exist
The presence of [Deleted] words that we've missed?
Are the thoughts absent in the world if there isn't a list?
If that is so, by these rules I won't abide

The act of this pen gouging paths on this page
Is naught but my mark binding thoughts to a cage
Yet the prison isn't a container, instead it's a stage
Upon which these words act as a guide

My words are not mine, they've existed all along
The potential for poem, the potential for song
What I've done is put them into material strong
This is the truth to you I'll confide