The Empty Page

fountain-pen-blank-paper.jpg (450Γ—300)

I wake up suddenly;

The remains of the nightmare

Form tiny beads of perspiration

On my forehead.

 

I shiver with cold

As I think of that page,

Sitting brightly on my desk

Smug in its blankness.

 

I tiptoe to the desk,

Not daring to turn on the light.

It glows in the dark though;

Its whiteness teases me.

 

I’ve had several such nights

Breathing heavily in front of it.

Willing myself to mar the white

And waiting in vain.

 

I burn with feverish passion

Now attacking it violently.

The pen slants across the page

For hours, I lash out at it.

 

The words pour out like blood

And then I slash them out,

Beginning anew,

Then turning old.

 

It is morning now,

My fervor has cooled down.

The paper bears the marks

Of my crimson ink.

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5 thoughts on “The Empty Page

  1. You have described very accurately how painful it can be to struggle with writing. Sometimes it truly seems a bloody endeavor. Enjoyed your post, and hope you aren’t fighting at the moment with a piece of blank paper!

    Like

  2. Pingback: Blog Review: 2014 | The Writer's Nest

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