Oh, Dear Paper,
Clean as God
Crisp sheet of blinding white
Why must you hurt me, so?
You wink back at me, mockingly
Pure and untouched
An unwritten virgin paper,
You sprawl your cut edges
Taunting I, a writer loss for words
You call upon me to cut your face
With the curves and strokes of lead
But wrinkle in disgust as my pencil dots your cheek
You intimidate me as I mask the page
There is pressure to write perfection
Each word must be absolute
Precise, detailed to a point.
And poetry must dance with a beat.
How do I begin to write?