I wonder, at times

if I am worth reading

If my life is half the pages I pretend to write

Because the poetry that spills

Within the ink of this pen, I grip

Exists to emit what only others feel

The weight of their sorrow

While my pages remain unfilled

Like, death

I have written to the excess

That one might think I express that which exists within me

But I reflect those better versed in life

For what am I

if not an empty page dreaming itself a book

Always aware of what is and never what should

Like

what is it to be living, I knew

Never

what one should do to be alive