Cube

I wrote again:

I like to ask questions and I like to write. I've not been wronged, but I like to write. I want to say something, but I have nothing to say; nothing of import, at least. What's wrong with me? Am I empty? Is the hollow bird on my back more than a name tag?

I am a vase. Flawed and imperfect. I hide my imperfections under gloss, hats, paint, clothing. Something to be seen, then appreciated, but unused. Not useful. Useless. Empty. Filling with dust. Why am I empty? Why can't I be the vase that houses and keeps alive the flowers?

This is what I want to be. This is what I want to do. This is what I want to create, and in creation, live. I want to live. Not survive.