If I were to write, would you read?

If I were to sing, would you hear?

What then of the emptiness, what should we do with it?

Before it swallows me whole.

I shouted into it thinking it was the night sky, but received no response.

The stars turned out to be the eyes of the crowd watching me.

The moon became a spotlight and all my mistakes became performance art.

I dance on the stage and people whisper at every mistake I make instead of seeing the joy it brings me.

I sing to fill the emptiness, and the whispers speak of the notes I can’t hit.

I create to live and die every time I press publish.

Reborn, happier having completed the task.