Sometimes I wish I could say
I stare at a blank page.
White and pristine,
mercifully devoid of phrases,
a beautifully empty vehicle
waiting to convey my words.
But my pages are filled with scribbles
and really bad doodles,
with expressions and fragments,
arranged and rearranged until barely legible.
I believe I have destroyed
more than one forest with my inaptitude.
And the monstrosities stare back at me,
mocking my feeble wording,
always lacking, always wanting,
cruelly pointing out my inability
to communicate my thoughts,
stoking my frustration.
© november child
photo credit: in transition via flickr
(with my apologies, those are actually very beautiful scribbles as opposed to my own which lack any grace whatsoever)