•The Empty Man•

Not everyone can write poetry,
You'll pour your heart & soul out into verses,
Convert your memories into ink,
& burn through draft after draft,
But what if you have nothing to say??
See, I have never lived, I haven't yet had 'experiences',
I have never smelled death, felt loss, touched fate, heard hate or seen love,
For me, the empty page is torture,
It sits & it spits it's venom at me,
Daring me to taint it with my meaningless scribbles & dots,
A pen is a sword & mine is a tad too blunt,
So the empty page mocks me,
It sits before me with the knowledge that I have nothing to offer it,
The great poets will fill & have filled pages with their thoughts, with their emotion,
Their minds are floodgates & when they open, an ocean swamps the pages,
These people are born-writers 'cause 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 is not meant to absorb your feelings, it reflects,
The whole time I was staring at the empty page,
I never realised that it is a mirror,
I ventured into poetry to find myself & I did,
So who am I??
I am John Doe. I'm nothing. I'm nobody, invisible,
The page isn't empty- I'm empty,
I'm drained to full capacity & I have nothing inside me to throw on paper,
I am a blank canvas,
I am The Empty Man.