you’re staring thoughtfully at the 
(blank)
page in front of you, 
pencil poised, hovering hesitantly
your hand still as you consider

·

the page, white, empty,
(blank)
holds the possibility for great things–
a work of art, a story yet untold: a canvas
for the hidden thoughts which long to be freed

·

and yet it remains 
(blank)
for the fear of imperfection; the flawed desire
to make history with each stroke, 
to change the world with a word

·

now your mind is 
(blank)
because you strove too much, aimed too high 
and icarus cannot reach the sun 
when he fears to fly