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Strange Attraction

Why do I slave over this piece of paper without reason?
Each night and morning I let the desire to fill it capture me
And I suffer every moment I cannot fill it
I rave and scribble but nothing seems good enough
I am filled with fear to destroy such a perfect whiteness
With my unworthy and uneven words
Broken down by lack of sleep and worry
I let the ink run over my hands like black blood and stain them
Wondering what strange attraction holds me to the page in front of me
Every moment spent here is a moment pained by lack of idea, expression
Yet I cannot leave.

Any suggestions/comments are welcome, especially on the wording and rhythmn. It sounds a little choppy to me. Thank you!

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