O' blank sheet of parchment, Thou art truly wondrous. Every square inch of virgin snowy white Holds unmatched beauty. Why must I tarnish you O' glaring symbol of writer's block With these clumsy, foolish words? So unworthy they are of being placed upon your delicate surface. O' pen, You sit so still in mine trembling hand, Redundant, obsolete; your nib Hungry to touch the paper's face, Your ink desperate to be freed from its plastic prison Where it sits, mocking me With it's poetic potentiality.