The blank page is like the empty stage,
Art waiting to be born or crumpled and torn.
Can I fill it? If I really will it?
Or is it destined to be a novel of the mind?
Shapeless and formless to the rest of human kind?
I suppose I could write about my Auntie Josie, or sister Rosie,
The recipe for Chilli con Carne or the true love story of Fred and Barney,
I could tell the story of Cherie Blair, give her some pizzazz, style, flair,
Or I could fill the blank page with my inner rage,
Stain its surface with my pain, and then sell it for gain.
I could make people laugh, or barf,
I could dazzle them with my pearls or simply write sexy smut for girls,
Above all, I could fill the page for the benefit of man,
Or maybe just flush it down the lavvy pan,
I could sermonise, educate or lecture,
But, shit, I’ve gone and filled the page with my conjecture.