The Infamous Blank Page

The infamous, blank page-
That blood-curdling, white void-
Starring you down, for hours, for ages.
The steady blinking of the cursor taunting you,
Like the incessant dripping of a faucet-
A 'na, na, nana, na' that will not be silenced.
It mocks every word, every thought before your fingertips grace the keys,
Halting you in your tracks,
Stringing you up in an eternal limbo of, 'what if.'
You must say something,
You must say anything,
But the unbridled fear of humiliation, of rejection, grips you; keeps you silent.
You push back against the fear,
Ducking your head and surging on,
Practically screaming the words onto the page.
Something is different,
The white void has been marred,
Your attack has left quite a mark.
That steady cursor no longer seems to taunt,
But it almost seems to pant,
In a pathetic struggle on it's hands and knees.
You speed on, keys flying from under your fingers,
As you watch the blank page take shiner after shiner,
Receding back beneath your words.
You slow, taking in your work,
Dabbing gently at the marks,
And cleaning the wounds you've left behind.
The cursor seems to stagger,
Before it rises to it's feet,
Blinking steadily, on duty and awaiting your command,
You consider the infamous, blank page,
Not so blank anymore,
And admire this new creation.
Maybe those white voids weren't so bad after all,
You could conquer them,
You could do this.