Empty.
Not empty the way a trash can with a new bag is empty.
Empty the way a new notebook is empty.
You open the cover, jot the name you claim as your own
Somewhere in the empty space.
The first page taunts you,
Possibility itself daring you to bring order to inherent chaos.
From the void, the first words ink themselves on the page,
Using your pen as their instrument.
You scratch them out, your words stricken through by a scribbley line.
Not good enough.
Not those words. Not this time.
Not to worry. You've got plenty of time.
Tear out the page. Now the second becomes the first.
Another blank page. Another second chance.
Another emptiness that is not as empty as it seems.