When I start off with a blank page, Nothing else seems as vast. I struggle to put down that first word, And then get stuck wondering if it's the last. I feel it after every piece I write, That the words come from one emptiness And fill up this empty page, And I'm just a conduit in between, No more, but also no less. Each time I also think That the next time won't seem so hard, And every time I'm proven wrong. But I guess if it came that easily, Everyone would be a part-time bard.
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