Ink

Nothing so exciting yet at the same time
nothing so daunting
as a blank page
beckoning...
enticing...
waiting to be filled up
with a flood of black ink.
But what if your pen has run dry?
Or even worse, your muse?
Staring at the unending brightness of white
desperate to leave a mark
just to prove you can.
A racing mind, each new thought discarded,
not worthy of your time, your talent.
And at that moment when despair has nearly won
when you're ready to rip the page
throw the pen
walk away
a dim hue on the horizon flickers,
a dam breaks
and a river of ink stains your page
with rhythm or rhyme or rhetoric
and your story unfolds.
And as you view what you've written
waiting for a critique,
there is nothing so exciting yet
nothing so daunting
as that full page stained with black ink.