Blank

A blank sheet, a blank sheet, waiting for me to give it meaning.

A blank mind, wanting to express, wanting to let it all out,

Where do I start?

I start here.

A mind, a heart, aching to be heard.

Aching to be understood.

Who will hear me?

Who will break apart the riddle?

The poem is a great thing, I tell you it is.

 

A blank sheet, a blank sheet, waiting for me to give it meaning.

The words that cannot be spoken,

The painting I cannot paint,

The music I cannot compose.

That’s the reason I write.

Everyone will interpret these words of mine differently.

None of them are wrong,

I don’t even know the answer.

 

A blank sheet, a blank sheet, waiting for me to give it meaning.

Childhood struggles, pain, and anger,

Teenage confusion, being misunderstood

Adulthood, financial problems, doubt,

Insecurities tug at my ankles when I least expect it.

Yet, this sheet.

I write and this sheet consumes it all.

 

A blank sheet, a blank sheet, giving my life meaning. 

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