The White Page

The white page begs for words like the drug addict who, asking for spare change for food, really want drugs to satisfy their craving, but the white page, while literally starving for verbs to fill the barren expanse bereft of subject or predicate, will not be satisfied with mere words as the real craving is for something better, something like the complete thought that turns into a perfect sentence, a sentence to end all sentences, a sentence that shouts to the world, I Will Work for Words, until word after word the white page fills with words and is no longer blank or void of meaning, but still this is not enough, no the half page mocks the writer, whispers in his ear, taunting him with the thought that anybody can draw up a list- this is not talent; what a page desires are full blown stories, romances, mystery, nods to the masters, not just words lifted from the latest book you have read, but instead a humorous tale with a payoff line that screams brilliance, please don’t even consider stopping here when you have more to give, just acknowledge that a page has needs too, and so the writer proclaims to the page that the words he has written will grow like seeds upon the ground, and gathering hubris, says that one day he will be called the Johnny Appleseed of words, and his words will propagate, spreading far and wide, single words begetting more words, until fruitful sequences of words dream of becoming paragraphs, paragraphs that force pages into turning over, and soon both sides of the page are completely full and satisfied, and the writer, who is now on a roll, reaches for a new white page.