I sat between the hours of emptiness I'd been given
(To be empty is a gift when everything else
causes pain or doubt)
(I hear (or maybe just imagine from my own stereotypes)
that to be empty is the goal of many Middle Eastern
meditations and traditions and religions)
I sat with nothing but stories on a clean slate
To finally write the things I could not write any earlier
(A private school's prestige seems to be measured by
the amount of work the students are required
(So my school year causes pen and paper to blur
with promises of future creativity
and I remember very little else))

I found that any unfinished stream of words and consciousness
I could not add even a sentence to
(They were all a mess)
(I sleep more than I am awake yet) I
could not find the energy to correct
and to perfect what I had previously created
I longed (but did not want to long) for only
A clean slate
I cannot help but be scared about how
New my life is becoming and how quickly
And repeatedly I am learning to begin

A clean slate is the hardest easy-way-out
Promises of greater beauty with greater risk
can make me forget that many times a new pen and new paper
have led me to nothing but greater mess

But even in my subconscious and against my reasonable will
My body aches for and my mind functions only with
Something untouched, something exploratory
(Yet I do not think ambition and impulsive reside in me)
A blank page is all I can offer myself
(I would rather continue yesterday's paragraph)