A Blank Page


A blank page

Full of possibilities

Like my life

What will I do

With it?

Will it go to waste

Like my life?

Or will I

Create something beautiful

Something meaningful.

The pen hits

The white canvas

Smearing ink

Forming letters



Will it become

Anything worthwhile?

How often have

I done this

Very thing

Sat quietly


Whether I’m enough

If what I write

Is enough,

Good enough.

How often have you?

The words

Are repetitive

Filling the page

No longer blank;

A full page

Loses possibility

Is that why

I’m afraid?

Afraid to ruin it

With mediocre ramblings.

I don’t want

To lose

The possibilities.

What am I

But full of options

Full of ideas

Full of promise.

What is the page

When I can

No longer

Add ink?

What happens to

Its possibilities

If I rip it up,

Toss it in the trash,

Burn it?

Do I die with it?

What has happened

To my possibilities,

Where did they go?

I don’t remember

Ripping them up

Throwing them away

Burning them.

Yet, I can’t

Find them.

I’m afraid

They’re gone

And no amount

Of blank pages

Can bring them back.

3 thoughts on “A Blank Page

  1. In reading this I immediately thought of a ‘poetic piece’ that voices the same frustration, yet underscores the value of giving one’s pen freedom to write without critical restraint. Only after thoughts are expressed should the editing begin. When done the other way around, the ink often dries…before anything’s written. 😉

    (Please delete the link above if you feel its inappropriate)

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