A Blank Page

A blank page is worse

Than any written word,

Because every sentence

Is a piece of a soul,

Even when it doesn’t seem

Like it glows in the dark.


For ideas can spill

From graphite or ink,

In a peculiar mess

That can be manipulated

Into something as beautiful

As the galaxies in the night.


And those galaxies

Are ever changing

In the blackened sky,

Creating and destroying,

All in the same breath,

Which blows out stardust

Into forgotten places

That the naked human eye

Was never able to see.


And an idea is more descriptive

Than hundreds of thousands

Of the most stunning images

That a photographer

Could ever capture,

Because it is rather a reverse

Of a saying that has been

Put in place for years.


Because a word speaks

A million pictures,

Only within the span

Of a few simple syllables

As visions flood the mind

In sounds unspoken,

But rather heard

By open hearts.


But none of this exists

On meaningless, untouched paper,

Because each written journey

Can never be completed

Until a pencil or pen

Scars the universe

With a single stroke.

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