The page is blank,
Just like my mind at this moment.
Poetry seems so simple,
But truly it is an art.

To be able to put one’s thoughts,
Feelings,
Ideas,
Values,
On paper.
To express what is in one’s mind
And heart,
Through the written word.
To convey
Who one is,
What one stands for,
In a poem.
It is defenitly harder than it first may appear.
Poetry is a,
Love,
A
Passion,
That is not for the faint of heart.
It is a hobby,
An art,
That can impact both the reader,
And the writer,
In unseen ways.
That is why poetry is so,
Complex.
Or so I think.

The paper is still blank,
But now my pen hovers above it,
And still I hesitate.
I know what I want to write,
The problem now,
Is how to write it.