*
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
Words
Sentences
Will it become
Anything worthwhile?
How often have
I done this
Very thing
Sat quietly
Contemplating
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.
I Picked Up a Pen One Day... 
Very relatable. I love how it’s disheartening but prompts action and thought so was ultimately uplifting for me.
thank you!
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)