Sometimes I sit before
A blank sheet, wondering
What to put down
Perhaps emptiness too
Is poetry
And a blank mind
A powerful prose
But how many would see
The beauty
If I left the pages blank
I fear
My script might be misinterpreted
And I myself, misunderstood
But I am determined to paint
My thoughts
However dark
However bright
My hands shall always be
In motion
For such motion creates
Moving poetry
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