A lone sheet of paper at my side

graphite lines show upon it

though now ever so faintly

dozens of erasures have left it nude

a surface no longer pristine in titanium white

nor silky smooth remains

a testament to the ferocity

of my corrective abuses

moments of ebullience conducted

by my penciled hand

in poetic symphonies gone errant

their souls taking flight

without benefit of feathered wing

my erasure flies across the paper in disgust

leaving no trace of useless verbiage

melodies of thought play in my mind

serenading my imagination to creativity

then the proclivity to write overwhelms

semantics attack the dream

dashing the beauty I have seen

a story is told not to unfold

no matter how bold the intention

without the music of my soul

'tis not worth scibing

a crumpled sheet of paper is trashed

into the growing number of casualties

let me surrender for a moment

'til my heart insists that I recover

birth of a poem

is a labor of love