White space. Is it something to be terrified of?
Is it something that takes over my pen
so it freezes in mid sentence?
It could be an invitation to fill my entire page
with musings and wonderings
which threaten to disappear
like milk in black tea if my pen
is not quick enough.
I throw thought after thought on it.
No matter how silly or weird.
I take away what does not belong.
What is left is enough.
I put my pen down.
My muse and I are satisfied.
Through My Eyes 