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?