I don't know man, read it ;)
I'm joking, this a poem about writing and general creativity. It came to me when I was stuck on an idea. That's the thing about poetry - it's so versatile - it can change all the time. Anyway. Writing.
A blank page, an empty canvas, a clean slate,
Nothing to force the markings, from keeping it in that state.
Nothing to force the jots or scribes, the etchings of their dull gray lives,
But creativity from the individual’s mind and all the secrets they can't hide.
From all the times their demons lies and pushed so hard their angels cried,
The burdens that they left behind but bring forward from locked inside,
Setting free the guilt they solemnly stretch for their memory's stride.
While all the feelings crash and collide, they litter over that clean, virgin slide,
The blank page, the empty canvas, the clean slate.
Human vanity effects its state until it simply becomes a mess they create,
Create, create on that clean slate,
The knowledge left there is all too late.