Blank but not quite blanc,
Taunting me with possible ideas
Of what to etch and curve and carve
Into plaster and paint.

Torn scraps curled up into *****
Of perfect things
That are flawed
When put together.

I want to look right
To view it when I wake,
Like it the first time
I saw Munch.

I want to look right
Without a need to change and alter and edit
The leaf out of place
Or the cigarette in Oscar's hand.

I want it to look right,
Stand with hands on hips,
And proudly leave marks on my clothes
From palms blackened with acrylic.