The Blank Page

The blank page is a menace, wicked and smug
Its white stare as damaging as any old drug
The gaps in its lines seem to widen with time
Assaulting your senses as you think of a rhyme

Its Arctic Plains are hostile and impenetrable
In zero words calling your writing terrible
The pale monolith has mastered the craft
Of making you feel small, time-wasting and daft

It's where that rusty old roadblock to progress is found
A ceremony for dreams but nothing is crowned
The brain has ideas but the words simply don't come
Feel your ideas drip drip to the beat of no drum

The blank page feeds on your creative plight
To the point you feel that you can't even write
It never forgives, it makes you forget
Don't let it turn your gift into a thing you regret