Dear Blank Page,

How can an absence of matter provide so much intimidation?

Your pure white eyes glaring at me with utter frustration,

Screaming at me to try, to experiment, to dream

Challenging me to fly, to hear myself, to see

My thoughts tangibly ensnared by a net of primitive words.

But how can I limit my feelings to simple nouns, adjectives and verbs?

You taunt me with infinite possibilities, though I must find just one

A negative balance of intricate positivity- you are both everything and none

A portrait, an essay, a peace offering, a fight,

A poem, a painting, a story, a life

So I have but a question, would you answer my plea,

Why can others see your future, but it is never shown to me?