I found myself today

I found myself today

Lying between the sheets of paper

That have been written

In another life.

 

I wanted them to be filled

With memories, feelings and life

But they were as empty as me.

 

I remember writing on them

On the day before

But I cannot recall what it was.

 

Are we doomed to the oblivion of good times?

Is it really necessary to feel a blank page,

In order to be a written page?

 

These questions are answered in the next line:

I fooled you, they’re not!

Author's Note

This is the first time I post something I wrote, please tell me whether or not this is crap.

Reviews

[JC]

i think its great, i got the feeling that you were struggling with the act itself and the reality of life being lived, does it matter sorta thing, like what rimbaud must have felt when he gave it up and became a gun runner, that reality was probably too good to bother writing about, thats the feeling it invoked in me anyway, and i felt i could relate, and felt that you are a person of thought and emotion.