Incomplete

I sit atop a white page. Legs against my shoulder, looking over at the other empty pages, enjoying the beauty of their blankness. Their future has promise, infinite probabilities.They might create wonder among mankind, stir revolutions, evoke pain, insight thoughts and criticisms. But this empty page doesn't hold that privilege. It is to be inked in, losing its virginity forever. All the dreams that I had about this page disappears the moment I appear before it. Yet I feel obliged somehow to keep my promise.
A while has passed since I have started sitting and looking at things. I have been seeing people gleefully passing me by, telling me sweet nothings. I have laughed along.
In my dreams, the pages are full of colour, all of them splashed into one single, enlarged whiteness. I feel the warmth of those hues against my body all the time. But yet when I come back onto earth, I find it singularly barren. I splash a few around but they never seem to fill it up.

In the distance the mirage stands out like horses and cattle.
Whilst a few paces of dirty writing will have to stick out now
Between the snatched lines of previous snatches

Constipated in thoughts, words, emotions and metabolism
Relying on the ever-present wealth of man's creativity
to relay my self-effacing superiority

The snatch has dissolved
And I run to the edge of the room
in hope of seeing me sitting here
So that the words may indeed evolve