I can’t seem to find the words
To fill on the empty pages
Of my open book.
What to do at this point?
I can’t seem to remember the last page that I was on.
It’s as if, out of no where,
My story was tossed up in the air,
Uncared for, handled roughly.
Now my pages are scattered,
Blowing away in the wind.
Is there really any use in trying to go after them?
Everything is so mixed up anyway.
Some sentences are confusing,
Most words are made up,
And I’ve lost sight of an index,
The ‘who I am’ of my book.
I collect them, but it seems I’ve lost most pages.
I piece my book back together,
Page my vacant page,
Realizing that I haven’t lost any pages,
I just didn’t have that many to begin with.
Flipping through the rest of my book,
There is so much emptiness, there are no words,
No pictures, no fancy titles,
Just an arrow, pointed left,
Telling me not to give up yet,
To keep on writing.