There is beauty in a blank page. It sits there new, fresh, ready to be worked. It can become almost anything: a poem, a play, a psalm, a prayer. As it is, it is nothing, empty and waiting. Waiting for the pen to spill over. Thirsty for the blood, the tears, the perspiration that will give it life. Anticipating those markings that will forever keep it from just a plain piece of paper. It spurs emotion into thought, thought into word.