Writers Block

I sit in front of a blank page staring in between the lines, lost without any words.
This blank page is my canvas.
My words are my paint.
Some stokes leave a mark.
While others can be washed away.
But at what cost?
The words will always leave a stain.
I can write words of happiness or pain.
But what do they show?
That I'm happy?
That I feel pain?
I can write words of freedom and envy.
But who is truly free in a world filled with war?
And why envy something over the other?
Who's to say my words are justifiable over others?
I can write words of peace and prosperity.
But how can there be peace and prosperity, when there are people who are starving?
I sit in front of a page that is filled with words, with my heart bleeding out onto a blank canvas.