A white page slaps me in the face
it boxes my ears
saying, "Amy, bruise me blue."
It knows my fetish for azure ink.
"But I'll take black if you want to be harsh; I like it that way."
I wonder why I put myself
through this sadomasochistic dance
day after painful day
ripping ideas from my head
with no anaesthesia
arranging them in my ugly scrawl.
But silencing the blankness
is a brutal symbiosis,
and the moment I stop
the paper begs me for more.