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Poem
Blank page syndrome
feels like full page longing
to be done with some work project
that will not slowly grow worthy 
of my time
and certainly no captivated reader.

I feel victimized,
tortured, actually,
by blank page syndrome

Where I want to feel some opening
and rewarding opportunity
and not dull risk
of further unnoticed failure
to richly
and wisely communicate
warm and wild communion.

My blank pages
demand content
spilled across blue horizontal lines
with a red left side vertical
boundary demarcation

Remarking where orderly thought correctly begins
to unfold top left
unfurling cause effectively
sequentially
toward right bottom

Yet Left dominance
overpowers Right feelings prominent
circling and recycling
whirling and spinning
spiraling out of win/win control
re-membering risks 
of nontransparent failure
falling brawly short 
of both peaceful Truth
and vulnerable Beauty.

Yet a bleakly black blank canvas
with no red
or blue bicameral communion rules
or tools
feels most frightening
intimidating of all
unbalanced
anthro-privileged
vaporous calls

My
"I can't draw,
or sketch,
or paint,
or write,
or sing,
or dance,
or speak out woke"

Can't preach
or teach inside voices
ignoring outside echoing choices
to evoke
childish dreams,
daydream schemes
to become Earth's greatest love
of blank paged warm regard
for how we flew
and walked
and swam 
and grew to Here embodied
meets Now compassioned mind

Greatest
deepest
widest
trusted EarthBeauty
dipolar co-arising
all scared yet sacred Time's unfolding

Win/Win regenerative
peaks and valley sand
defining ecstatic
aesthetic lines
refining intimate circling spaces
etched throughout 
neuro-systemic elegant 
regenerational potential
for healthier lands

Not not synergetic journeys
deeply and widely
back and forth
out and inside 
polyculturing communion

While staring at this straight lined
and otherwise white privileged
square-cut manufactured page

Holding my green health hope
and content contented circling pen
praying for worthy expiring
inspiration.
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