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.
The Writer's Nest 
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