A Clean Slate

What started as a poetry, I was
scribbling now.
It didn't feel right, but it was cozy,
somehow.

I thought I was writing a poem, a script
my own story, my life.
But now, it's all a scribble, and it has started to hurt-
the rife.

I need to stop it, right here
and look.
It's a complete chaos, the slate,
every nook.

It is time I cleaned it, to write something
new.
Sense has dwindled in the past lines,
few.

I take the cloth, dip it in the water
and look.
The slate is full, colors here and there.
Do I dare re-look?

I begin from the bottom, work
my way up
The two pink lines, the reason for my poetry,
And that I can't give-up.

Up still, a color in red chalk
catches my eye.
Oh the romance! The drizzle of
love, sigh!

Let that be, I hear my heart
mumble.
A distant memory of the walk in the moonlight,
and then, the sea's rumble.

I give up, and move still, through the maze,
up.
Wave of green, the teen, the child-like blue,
they don't rub.

Defeated, I return to the present spot, and
wipe it clean.
There is a relief, here, in the now, and that's
all I need.

I have waited enough, now take inspiration from
within.
There is nowhere to hide, the poetry,
simmering.

Write, and write I will,
and the world will see.
A clean slate doesn't mean to be clean,
this poetry is meant to be.