Wednesday, June 1, 2011


I wrote all but the last four lines of this poem in high school.  For some reason the lines just started spilling into my head even though I hadn't read or even thought of this poem in years. 

I sit and stare at a blank page.
A blank page stares back.
She mocks me in my futile attempt to create art-
at least that is what they are calling it, I think-
I scribble senseless phrases and meaningless words
on her pure whiteness,
making her impure;
blemished with my wishful thinking,
scarred by my emotional wanderings.
She scowls at me and my musings
as though I were an estranged lover.

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