The Blank Page

Alone again
oh great white sheet of
murdered tree.
You are silent as this night.
Empty.
Where are the words
that smell of roses,
to bloom,
screaming from this page,
to rip out my soul
for this world to see.
Your thin, blue lines
my prison,
my mind in bondage,
your whiteness my captor
to be tainted by pen
at my hands desire.
Fill the page with madness,
with words stripped naked
for ears that do not listen,
for bodies that do not feel,
for minds that do not know.

The Blank Page

Whimzwhirled

St. Louis, United States

  • Artist
    Notes
  • Artwork Comments 1

Artist's Description

Most of my poetic musings where born on a paper towel, napkin or junk mail. I am not a poet. To be a poet takes dedication to the art. I can say though without hesitation that poetry has been a huge influence in my life and my art.

Artwork Comments

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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