Blank Pages

I gripped my pen so tight, my knuckles grayed...

my fear of failure more than what it should.

I paused above the lines, an inch away -

what if the mark I made was not that good?

*

There’s nothing harder than the first step took...

to make the choice you know you need to make.

On anxiousness, I could write many books. ..

my confidence was never more than fake.

*

So now my will to write put to the test

as forceful efforts ended up in vain.

The words play in my mind but only jest

as none will form into coherent strains.

*

But then, I think, “So what if this makes sense?”

The words need out, I need to write them down.

These pens I choose are nothing more than vents

for senseless verbs and adjectives and nouns.

*

Perhaps with skill those senseless words could make

a masterpiece of art to be enjoyed,

but even if my style did not take

my readers read the words I can’t avoid.

*

No longer gripping pen, I was relaxed

and in my head the words slowed down to form

some phrases, lines and sentences – syntax.

Instead of feeling cold, my hand was warm.

*

I stared down at the blankness of the page...

my fear of marring perfect paper gone.

No longer were my thoughts locked in their cage...

my pen flowed brilliant colors of the dawn.

*

I made a choice not knowing what would be...

my brushstroke permanent upon the board.

No matter what would happen, I’d be me –

a stronger me because I dared to soar.