A Blank Page

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Pure, blank, untouched, uncharted,
The page taunts me.
Pleading me to compose but
Providing no guidance or assistance.

I lift my pen,
A net to catch my fleeting ideas.
A thought shoots through my mind like an arrow
I catch it only to find it leads nowhere.
It evaporates, contributing to the fog building in my mind.
In submission and defeat, I sheathe my pen,
My only weapon against my mind’s void.

The pure, blank, torn page speaks now.
Resting in the trash bin,
It tells a story of frustration and despair.
Still untouched.





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