This Page Unwritten

I sit in front of this adjunct paper, this beginning begging for something other than me blankly staring at it.
Words waiting impatiently for their moment to come alive, feeling deprived of their time in the spotlight, they now conspire against me.
Hampering my writing abilities. On strike, this prose must be, put forth for descriptive monologue only to be unencumbered by any and all pronouns or adjectives that I insist their presence for this word structure is required for scaffolding at least? Maybe a this was false narrative, to begin with, my subconscious trying to show me with this union of platitudes, how by forming their brigade against my inspiration, teaches me, one cannot get a mental block from something one never comprehended. never possessed
Now this bleached white blankness, this abyss that stares back at me looking like a padded cell, where one day I may get to know all too well. There is something so alluring, within this page that is stirring inside of his will to exploit. waits for one with heart unencumbered by self-doubt to awaken their stories that lie dormant within.
These pages remain an allegory of dreams imprisoned.
Discover me then, writer an imposter!
This page remains a vacant lot, oh, how it mocks and torments!
An amusing mental narrative, constructed from my internal dialogue forming a word structure I heard too . word structure I flirted with earlier, eager to throw that unto canvas and expand this plot into what directions we decide on going, burning alive this fire inside, instantly cold the moment I confront the endless possibilities a blank piece of parchment is.
This anomaly or fumbled structures, be off, my muse not amused seems to be consorting this anguish now of becoming a mute poet.
I, Oxy Moron.
Unable to convey this betrayal of inspiration, would eagerly paint with emotions expressed through lyrical language, this bitter anguish that is a somber loss. It is food without taste, whine without merriment, sight without color or love without its physical embrace! For this is not just a loss for words, I have lost a part of me of everything I have ever written.
This is not a writer uninspired, yet an a is all that's left of me.
For my ability to describe this loss of interest, this power to explore the obscure has seemingly deserted me this 11th hour.
Be not dismayed then if these words are now conjoined with an afterthought for inspection. A contradictory reflection inspired only by a need for protection from this flotsam of memoirs that lay submerged under this jetsam of indecisive thought that I should have never bought into.
I wish them jettisoned from my memory!
Purge these insidious words of self-doubt and mockery! Never to be read or heard of again!
Such pompousness, these moments, this drive that feels alive inside and like a fire it needs to be fed, yet this spark of imagination fell onto a mind undeserving, a chance observation that required time for contemplation.
This reckless abandonment for the normal view just so happened to glimpse askew something that seemed to be relatively new. This magical anomaly, hidden from all in plain view! An intuition that is worthy of pursuit; yet, within this calling to write what I experience, with a sincerity that feels relevant. A meaningful way to show those willing a way to a path towards hope portrayed, outside these esoteric whims of blinding explanations.
I cannot express how.
Yet, by exploring this wonder of life, unhaunted.
A beguiling beauty that has been purposefully hidden in full view, a treasure trove for those emboldened enough to attempt to find these rare enchantments.
When given chance, one can grasp this joy of discovery that is wonder personified.
The excitement of finding this hidden gem of wisdom for treasure is not just there for finding just something beautiful beautifully hidden!
For it's in this pivotal moment of discovery, not just some alluring payday, goading one into believing finding riches in treasure unmeasured in wealth will set them free. A most tempting fantasy, yet the success in achieving that dream thought unobtainable, that journey to and finding that godsend, this newfound knowledge and the path to that reward is incomparable with those trinkets of coin and jewelry mistook for the commonwealth.
When embracing this idea, this unexpected portrayal of an everyday amusing view, finding little compromise when realizing the shock from a sudden revelation, like a bolt of electricity, makes one breathless upon discovering its simple beauty is to be shared openly and freely to all those willing to embrace this freedom that is the creative vision within the written narrative.
Expressing this newly discovered wisdom through a wordsmithing medium can bring this unmistaken gem left not only for the imagination of everyone who enjoys reading, for them to express their joy in their own words.
This beautiful lesson of life lay hidden in plain sight, open for interpretation and talent for insight.
Yet this pencil refuses again to relay these thoughts upon this empty sheet of paper, these lost words have lost in expression, how uninspired these clumsy whims that have elected to leave me, like a fair-weather friend who runs off when hearing rumors for storms, an abnormally written cretin, a buffoonish hapless babbler, now become the analogy. This insidious crooning, a repeat of the dialogue with my internal critic that happens to be hampering my attempts to begin writing something!
Be it electric, esoteric or at least eccentric, I'll settle for flaccid if it passes through spellcheck unhampered.
To be writing again! Without the need to paraphrase every paragraph to appease this nazi cynic in me, finding my unfiltered script repugnant.
Fighting this contorted tongue twisted pantomime that is now just another shorthand alibi.
This inability to begin, each word sounds different when read from this that was this, that becomes and this page left unwritten.
From an insight I may have misinterpreted, seems perhaps now a perversion of undaunted willingness for me to force this revision upon this spotless mural.
Where mysteries and hauntings plead from within their sheets still barren, just beggings for someone's literature to define its purpose.
Giving it a beginning before ending it.
Before me, this pleading that is a barren page lay waste to my imagination.
I find it troublesome how it can still intrigue me, this infinite blank canvas, just a sheet of paper, daring me to lay upon its unforgiving layered openness, words to become relevant.
Again I'm spent.
Coward is my nature, as this empty page dispenses within a relentless interrogation, its nomenclature now questioning my every literal intent.
Be one so arrogant, to wish upon this fresh canvas a complexity from possible literal potential? Am I then hypocrisy if ever read? Words that besmirched this now insurmountable anecdotal drivel lay bare upon just another hyperbole table.
This attempt to create a well-written perspective now floundering into the comparative disparate narrative.
Such is this event horizon. Within the unwritten page. Still, its singularity attracts me, as I submit through a love affair with literature weighing down on me, an imagination bound by its own gravity, distracted only by an unreasonable sense of descriptive depravity.
This cowardice besmirches the writer.
Who now barters with a vacuous leaf, its absence of allegory now bereft to this wrote sob story. Echoing throughout its fine print,
consent then, to this undaunted yearning?
This unwritten temptation to one day conquer that page, that still lay bare.
How unaware I was the intimidating conclusion to this false allusion that I could ever write something better than that blank pages potential.
Defeated, I lay down my pencil. This page remains inside me unwritten.
Never a beginning.
Pretending to end.

©flackersplatt

This poem is about: 
Me

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