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"Poem"
January 12, 2013
The blank sheet before me is no longer
blank; it is etched
with erratic black marks,
smeared hieroglyphics spelling
out words that don't make sense
yet, forming a meaning
that hasn't begun to exist.
The language is still being composed;
it too is a blank sheet,
still being filled up with the
short
thin
lines,
squiggles, curls and inky dots
linking each letter and word to the next,
stamped in black onto the white,
and each pressed key
unlocks something new.
This is no longer a blank sheet,
this is my poem.
But does it mean enough?
© Jeaunice B., Conyers, GA
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