The blank page stares back at me. Taunting me . . . Teasing me . . . It gets pleasure from my aching eyes. It feeds off my shaking fingertips. The more the page torments me, the more I want to rip the parchment in half. I drop the pencil and . . And . . . the empty lines start scraping nails against my skull. The perfectly neat, unfolded paper makes my shoulders twitch as each moment passes. Seconds . . . Minutes . . . Time slowly forces my hands across a wild fire as the page leaves paper cuts on my eyelids. No idea comes. Blank . . Empty . . . Unwritten . . . I picture myself lighting the page, a papery torch, letting the ash fall to the floor beneath my feet. I imagine myself drowning the page, throwing it into the hellish waves of an angry bay. I pretend . . . Pretend . . . Black teardrops stain the page. Red droplets fall to the parchment where I had clenched my fist to tight, fingernails biting into my skin. There I think some color. Suddenly I start to write . . .

Ode To An Empty Page: by Liz

I burn you, I throw you, I crumple you up.

I fold you, I write you, I end you daily.

Blank is nothing, and there is always a

Something. That's why I hate writer's block.