Fool's Pride
A sheet of paper, perhaps,
That you think of me:
Lined, regular, and plain,
An object, lifeless, mindless, souless, and blank.
You think you know me, you think you understand me,
You think you know who I am by what you see.
You are blinded by fool's pride,
To me, you are the paper guessing the pen,
And not the other way.