A blank slate
Is like having
No chalk to draw.
No shot for the cannon's maw.
No thoughts at all.
No lead in my pencil.
Nothing to draw.
No fire of passion,
To get it up at all.
Bland, nothing planned,
Staring at the wall.
There is no pattern,
No counting roses,
No texture to recall.
And so I drag my fingernails,
On the black walls of my prison.
A screeching sound reaches my ears,
And, finally, I have risen.
Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull
8/8/04
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