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.