The blank page

Everything I write
Begins with a blank page.
I stare and stare
And search for the next poem
Or story.
A thought occurs.
Just a thought.
I don’t know where it will go
Until I begin to write.
I don’t edit myself
At first.
I just try and write out the thought
As it comes to me.
It’s easier for me to write
About my fantasies
Than my reality.
Fantasies go on and on
Curving around reality.
Reality seems so plebian.
I much prefer the roller coaster
My fantasies
Seem to enjoy.
I do write about reality
And memory
When they are strong enough.
I have had experiences
That I have forgotten
Until I see this blank page.
I remember them as I write
And I laugh
Or cry
accordingly.
I have recorded things
In poems and stories
That I would never tell
Anyone.
Somehow it is ok
In black and white.
And at every end
Of every poem and story
Another blank page
Awaits.