The life of a poet
Is one of constant emptiness--
Empty pages, empty hearts
Writing is nothing
But a way to fill voids
Around and within us

We fill pages with words
That we wish in turn
Would fill us--
Fill us with the same presence
And purpose
As they hold on the page

We empty our hearts
And are left with nothing
In return
But a new sense of emptiness,
A new void to fill