blank canvas

I am like a blank sheet of paper; white and empty. While others are pages full of words. I am waiting for mine to be written, to be doodled, anything to keep me less empty. I am still waiting for something great to happen, something to fill this blank piece of paper of mine. I was written before, but no words were good enough to fill the emptiness; another paper crumpled and thrown to the bin. I lay alone on a table, waiting and watching while others' were beautifully written by hands of a poet, by fingers of an artist. They were published, they were sold as a masterpiece. They were made into paperbacks, into portfolios. They were brought around for recognition. But me, I am still lying on the table, feeling blank and empty. Nothing good has ever happened to me, nothing worth to be written down on, nothing. Because a blank canvas will remain empty.