He Only Speaks in Volumes
His empty words often fill the naked page, but now they also fill this empty room. He has no idea how it came to this. This room was once filled with people and voices: opinions, praises, critiques and congrats. Now the only voice left is his own, and his empty words echo back. Only to him they aren’t empty; he hears them clearly.  They’re full and loud even as echos. Ever the victim, he looks for reasons. He looks down at his empty words for an answer. He looks up to the empty room for a reply. He looks out the window for a reason. Never once does he look in to find it. 
Was it his ears? It couldn’t be. Like always they’re cocked, poised and waiting. Tuned in and trained to hear only one perfect word.Maybe his eyes? But they’re open. Sure they’re downcast and fixated on the page in front of him. Sure they stray from the page once and awhile, but only after his ears took the bait in the form of that one perfect word: his own name.It cannot be his voice. This he’s sure of. His words may be empty, but his voice can give them meaning. If not meaning, then volume, and with volume he can be heard. So with these eyes, these ears and this voice he racks his brain for reasons. Nothing comes to him. No advice given was absorbed; his ears saw to this. The only thing left was his voice.So with his pride and his voice and it’s volume he begins again. Only after the empty words echo back to him in the empty room does he realize their worth. These words entertain nothing but his eyes, his ears, and his own voice. He only speaks in volumes.