The Empty Page

An aspiring poet faces an empty page, with somewhat depressing results.

Not everyone can write poetry.

You'll pour your heart and soul into verses, 

convert your memories into ink 

and burn through draft after draft.

But what if you have nothing to say?

I have never lived. I have never experienced.

I have never smelled death, felt loss, touched fate, heard hate or seen love. 

For me, The Empty Page is torture.

It sits and it spits its venom at me,

daring me to taint it with my meaningless scribbles and dots.

A biro is a sword, and mine is blunt.

The Empty Page mocks me, 

It sits before me with the knowledge that

I have nothing to offer it. 

The great poets will fill pages with their feelings.

Their minds are floodgates and when they open, an ocean swamps the page.

These people are born writers because ink courses through their veins, 

Because their hands are guided by that which I can never have.

A soul.

I figured it out. 

I, too, can write words. But they're just that - mere words.

A murmur in a crowd, a loose handshake, a cold empty stare. 

The Empty Page does not absorb your feelings, it reflects.

The whole time that I stared at The Empty Page,

I never realised that it was a mirror.

I went into poetry to find myself, and I did.

Who am I? 

I'm John Smith. I'm nothing, I'm nobody. 

The page isn't empty - I'm empty. 

I'm drained to full capacity and I have nothing inside me to throw on paper.

I am a blank canvas. I am The Empty Man. 

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed