This blank canvas mocks me as I stare blanklessly at it.

.

it seems to be a split whether a title is significant or not
while poems are written freely, a title requires much thought
a meaningful title which embodies the piece as a whole
or perhaps a non-intrusive title to present the work is the goal
to place trivial importance on an irrelevant aspect of presentation
but some may see a meaningful gesture that requires much contemplation
there are those who see titles as creative outlets that require an imagination unbridled
however that is a point that is tough to argue when so many poems are still called Untitled

Let me be the cursive lines that flow from the black ink to your torn up notebook.

Let me be the harmony in your ears
Let me be what you write about at 2 am

Let the thoughts of us transfer to your pen
Flow from your mind and onto the white blank page.

Standing on the hillside
Stilled winds blanket my skin
I close my eyes and embrace
Worms born of skies and clouds
Blank are the colors they inspire

Lying on the hillside
Earth's feathers caress my limbs
I close my eyes and imagine
My bed sinking beneath the ground
Under may I breathe better than above

Falling down the hillside
Sunless upon the town, small and wilting
I close my eyes and remember
Sensations akin to this, akin to innocence
Come the end of my fall, will either of us stand?

Before this old hillside
A body still as corpses about the air
Open eyes shimmer, puddles of rain
Ashes, dirt and dust swim about this sprawled figure
Clothing for naught, now flesh sings with Her whole

it's been a long time since i wrote;
on notebooks i have words and some
cursive letters --
as i try to figure out the font of my name--
but i never truly write.

i kept staring at the walls and, somehow,
the room shrunk,
but i told myself i was okay.
even with this much space i could never suffocate.
i'm too scared to think about death.
then the walls keep staring back at me,
and the starry lights make me
starry-eyed,
starry-mind;
lost in dreams
of things
again.

i get so lost in thought of life
that i forget to start living mine.

Blank canvas
I cleaned my brush
So do I need to know
About your past
And drag mine
Into this now?
Saturated colors
Some dark edges;
A focal point
Can we not paint on white
Start out right?


Blank canvas
Is not ours
I do not require
A new work of art,
Superimposed
Upon our past.

I take you
As you are
Along with each stroke of brush
You have crafted until now;

The anatomy of us
Overlaps with the portrait of our lives
I see the whole spectrum
Let us look at the big picture.

my thoughts are paper planes
that don't seem to see the runways that i drew
on the blank sheets in front of me.