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