A blank page and an ink pen

grasped with a choking and shaking grip

by my hands with fingernails bit.

When I cannot take the pain,

the paper seems to absorb

just a little

of what I cannot.

The page challenged me to

make the letters etched

mean something,

because I know that I am tainting a perfect sheet

of a blank page.

All of the emotions, words, images,

scream in my head all at once.

Feels like I’m sitting in the center of an auditorium

where everyone is trying to speak above the others.

No matter how hard I try to pick out a single voice,

all I hear is the hum of sound

as it reverberates and echoes uncomprehending

across the inside of my mind,

occasionally picking out words that

weren't meant to fit together,

but have some strange and destined connection:


But even these begin to fade as they eventually

dissipate into the only thing left

when emotions, words, and images, seem to fail me:

A blank page.

I lower the pen to the page,

and find myself hesitating once again.

Does what I have to say

really matter anyways?

Maybe I should leave this sheet of paper

as a blank page

for someone else to paint or write or fold

into a masterpiece.

This shouldn't be so hard-

when did my life begin to revolve around complete indecision?

What if somehow I do manage to create something

truly special?

Am I ready to change the world?

A path always has two options-

progression and digression,

but it’s not always clear to me

which is which.

So maybe I’ll just stay where I am.

Afraid, but safe.

Safe from emotions, words, and images.

Safe, with a blank page in my trembling hand.

Before I can catch it in its fall,

a cloudy tear drops onto the blank page.

I am shocked to discover

that small tear was containing all

That I held within me

yet could not see.

I stare down at the smudge.

There. That about sums it up:

My masterpiece.


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