As I look at the blank page, I see so much to write.
Scribbling across, I begin to rant, the page pure- is no longer white.
I feel a force, raw power within.
Not of violence, neither of sin.
Of an emotion far greater than this,
of an expression that is pure bliss.
This flow of words, the taste of rhyme
is exhilarating such, worth many a dime.
I have the power, vested in me,
to think so deep, so much, so free.
Abusing this power, think- I do,
abusing this power, away goes my blue.
Looking at the rant, it has no meaning
either that, or one’s grey cells have been leaning.
For each word writ, articulated-expressed
there is great inner meaning, that cannot be stressed.
It is upon one to detect, to see
It is upon each one, to genuinely be.