Empty book

 She is like an empty book. She is filled with fresh, blank pages that are yet to be written in. Will she be covered in snatches of poetry, or streaks of colours in every shade? Because she is empty, people are hesitant to fill her pages with their stories. Write. She is like a capped pen, waiting to be opened. Like freshly spilled ink on the floor, like the steady 'clack' of a typewriter. "You're like an old paintbrush, worn but comfortable," she's told. Flowing steadily, like a quill, her ink drips onto the white sheet if paper, it's pages yellowing at the corners. She is like an empty book—but she will fill herself with stories before her pages yellow and corrode.

I think something is wrong with me

-Cleverquacks

I think something is wrong with me, 

For wishing to be ill;

Something more than a dull throb in my bones.

A reason to lie still in the warm embrace of my blankets,

As if sleep may answer what I cannot.

I think something is wrong with me,

For craving a shakespearean sorrow,

Something tragic and grand.

Something to name this soft, quiet ache that creeps around,

Making even the softest sounds seem too loud.

I think something is wrong with me,

For wishing for something else entirely;

A wound, a shadow on a scan—

Anything to prove that I am not just

Lonely and sad.

But in the end,

Maybe something is wrong with me,

For needing something

To be wrong at all.