Empty Pages

By: Bobin Park

Yesterday, I tried to write with my left hand 

They looked like those of a 5-year-olds’ 

Scribbly, with no correct starts and ends 

Twisted, turned around, conjuring new words 

From far away lands, rhyming and bouncy syllables 

Filling in empty spaces with ink 

that peaked out of notebook lines 

While other notebook pages were left empty 

That had a deadline 

Remember a voice on my podcast 

Saying how beautiful it is of children 

To keep trying and not be scared of looking foolish 

I called this my way of mourning 

To concentrate on one letter at a time 

One letter of one name at a time 

Because while I had other work to do 

I thought the world could afford to 

Let me have time alone with my pen 

But eventually other pages had to be filled 

And I could hold the pen in my left hand no longer 

Because I had no time left 

As it had already so brutally taken away the time 

of another