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
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:
HOPEFULLY FEARING LOVE TOMORROW WHY
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
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: