The page is blank,

Pure and white.

It is smooth to the touch.


Oh, but one must be careful,

For the slightest touch could taint it.

A touch bears pressures and colors

Far too heavy for such delicate paper.


The touch would tamper

With its clean white plane.

Leaving it smudged,

Brown and oily.


Like soft new snow

Trodden into sludge

By quiet feet.



If a touch is made

With intent and passion.


Something truly wonderful

May come forth.


Colors and shades,

Lines and smudges,


To create


A roaring flame,

A tranquil forest,

A pained expression,

Or an untamable spirit.


As ideas and emotions

Crash across the page

Like a raging tsunami,


One must notice

The stark white

Being washed away.


The page is full,

The inspiration slows,

The creation ceases,


But only until

The page is turned

And another world,

Full of white,

Is revealed.


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