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An Empty Canvas

A paper is a writer’s canvas
as the sun rose I showed up at the page
and the blank page stared at me balefully
afraid I closed the notebook.


My friends would ask,
“What’s there in your notebook?”
“Ideas, words and creativity.” I would say,
But they could find none.


Let down by the bare page,
“Where are your words?” They would say
I know where they are read them
hidden beneath the layers of an empty canvas.

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