I sit here, perusing one empty page
Loaded by the word processing site
I look and look, for what seems an age
And still it shows up in eye-blinding white.

A story? A poem? Or maybe a blog?
How to continue? How should I start?
White paper while the mind holds a clog
Perhaps I should scribble something like Art?

Or maybe it's true, according to Jane,
My mind has no focus especially today
Maybe it's something, something so plain
I should stop and maybe begin to pray.

And praying, I listen to some voice out there
From someone who claims to be overly smart
It's someone who's been every where
Saying 'Author!, you're a boring old fart!

'Admit it, shout it out louder and plain
It doesn't matter whatever your age
White pages are useless without any stain
Write word after word on that empty page!

'And when finished, when you are done
Think of what others have done with their art
Complaining and whining right from word one
Each writer is ever and always a boring old fart.'�

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