It feels just so empty inside out,
So blank like a new book,
Empty pages left to be filled up
But the ink doesn't flow,
The pen refuses to write on it,
Not only is the book empty, its too old to be used
The pen doesn't wanna get *****,
The book tried its best to get filled,
And that's enough knowing that it tried its best, nothing else matters.
Don't know where this came from guess its from the inner empty feeling. Please do suggest a better title for the poem.