Why I don’t write:
Poems are not poems anymore. They’re broken lines one after
the other and brokenness scares me. It takes me a long time to sew my lines one
into the other and I don’t think I can handle breaking them again
Everyone writes. The same things. They write so much better
than I do. They know what I want to talk about. My words come from the pit of
my stomach. I can’t have anything new to say
The world is weird. My stories comfort me because they’re
mundane and comfortable and snuggly. No one wants to read mundane today. I don’t
have cold to offer and I don’t know if anyone will accept my comforter
I don’t want to see you reading what I wrote because you
frown when you focus on words and I bite my lip without even realizing thinking
that my feelings don’t make sense to you. You smile when you discover that I actually
don’t write, don’t imagine, don’t make up things, I just watch around all day
and twist the words so no one would know that I’m writing about them
I don’t write because what if someone actually reads it and
then looks at me with those knowing eyes and in that moment I realize I have
nothing more to offer, they know who I am
