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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.