The Empty Page

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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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Photo by Jon Sullivan (Wikimedia Commons)

The wait is endless.

The outcome no nearer in sight.

But the fears have fallen

On the way in the quest to get.


I stand impatiently

On the branching pathways.

Each road better and worse.

Each way beckoning and repelling.


I see broken shadows

Of desires; pent-up and hidden,

A lifetime of unspoken wishes

On the path that I’ve come from.


But I’ve come a long way

And the past is now

Nothing but that; past.

I look forward, restive.


The fierce fire burns within

The wake of passion

Has shaken off

The strings of vulnerability.


I am no longer afraid.

Unabashed, I am free to be.

As the fears have fallen

On the way in the quest to get.