Blank

As I stare at this blank paper, I think to myself if the paper is blank because I do not have the years and the wisdom to fill it with.
The more I think, the more i write.
Filling fast with my words, the paper is no longer blank but only partly filled.
As empty as my life is now this paper used to be.
I have not lived yet, I have much left to understand.
And now as this paper fills with my empty, hollow thoughts I think that maybe because I have not yet experienced real life, I have more to say than the rest of us.
Is it possible, my young eyes will eventually understand it?
Will the paper then be as full as my life?
Could it ,just maybe, stay the same?