Defining what the world means

Is what I do best

Poetry dripping,

thick through me

But words with little weight to anchor these pasted fillings

On the fresh pages left unfilled

I have written of love

That I have not felt

Of pain and sorrow

That has crept

tightly pressing onto my chest

I have written of death

To the excess

That one might think

I try to express a deep turmoil

That exists within me

But all are just reflections of those well-versed in life

I am all knowledge and no wisdom

An empty page dreaming itself a book

For I know what is and not what should