Writing books are staring
blankly up at me.
I get it man, you’re empty
Give me time, and I will
Fill you up with something beautiful.
Perhaps a story.
Only time will tell.
Maybe a rhyme,
Maybe a lengthy entry
of my life and times…

Maybe a song.
You won’t wait long,
I promise there will be
A word or two
that’s meant for you.

I close the cover,
Hear it sigh – or was it me?
I get it man – you’re empty.
Give it time, and I will
fill you up with something beautiful.

I pick it up and put it on the shelf,
I stare awhile and ask myself
Why, oh why do I feel bad
for empty pages tucked inside of
brand new books –

The answer’s simple:
It’s because
I’m empty too.

I open up.
I grab the book.

 

 

photo by: Miguel Á. Padriñán

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