The blank white page is taunting.
It is flawless, pristine, unscarred.
It mocks me openly, saying,
“You have no talent.
If you did, then it would be displayed on this paper.”
Everything about it is perfect.
It doesn’t wish to be disturbed;
But still it is taunting,
A silent, open canvas.
So I take my words,
Pour out my soul,
And quash its mockery.