The blank page is like an empty stage,
It is white, not beige, an open space but also a cage,
Placid and full of rage, a master who pays no wage,
Wisdom without a sage,
That’s the blank page.
The blank sheet is quite a feat,
It is white as snow, cold as sleet,
Its nakedness is hard to beat,
It is sprawling but also neat, frozen and full of heat,
An ultimatum and a short leet, like a fire without peat,
Bread without wheat, that’s the blank sheet.
The empty screen is obscene, it is not worth a bean,
It is a silence, it is a scene,
It is reluctant, it is keen, fat and also lean,
Vicious and mean, that’s the empty screen.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved