A blog is an autobiography written as you're reading it.

A Blank Sheet of Paper

It’s not very often that I write a poem that I truly like, but when I do, they feel like they’re as much a part of me as my legs or arms. Those are the poems I really care about. I don’t write them very often — but when they come, they come.

This poem defines those poems. And while it was defining them, I think it became one of them itself, because it also defines (a part of, at any rate) me. So, here it is:

A blank sheet of paper is an invitation
To open up my mind and my heart.
So I flip all my thoughts and memories
Inside out, and wring them onto that page
Until days and months and years of
Loving, caring, hurting come out.
My whole life pours out to be sifted,
Until I find an Idea:
Writhing and living, new and untamed,
Hidden deep like diamonds underground.
And that simple piece of my life – all of that
Living that can’t be expressed:
My job is to write it on paper.
It’s never the same, because there aren’t
Words invented that can measure up to
The raw Beauty of Life.
Who can capture love with a pen?
But even if it’s flawed and cracked in places
That page is a window.

Anyone who picks up that page may look inside.
It’s a gift I give freely.
But here there’s no storefront with
Paper valentines and chocolate hearts.
No, this is my heart: Beating, gasping and
Copper coloured of my own blood.
This is my life that I’m painting
With ink on this page.
And you may only be picking up the page
But you’re picking up a bit of my life,
And it may hurt you if you’re reading right:
Because living it hurt me.
That’s what makes it worth it.
That’s what makes this page so valuable.

I am a writer. And I invite you:
Pick up this page, and
Read.

Andrew Joyce