A blank piece of paper sits before me.
How will my inspiration manifest?
What images from my mind will I wrest?
Will it be something someone wants to see?

Do I commit pencil to poetry,
Or a landscape drawn from a reverie?
My creative block leads me to detest
A blank piece of paper.

My pencil tip is tapping rhythmically,
In time with my internal symphony.
I plunge into my work a man possessed.
After much effort my thoughts are expressed.
I gaze in awe at what was formerly
A blank piece of paper.


© 2017 Benjamin Goodrich

2 thoughts on “Blank

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