I don't wish to write, no more.

Somedays, I don't want to pick up a pen.
Somedays, I don't feel like splattering my heart all over the keyboard.
Somedays, I can't choose if my emotions are pressing the keys, or each key's pressing my emotions.
Somedays, I don't want to pick up a pen.

It's not some writer's block that is 'just a phase' and I will 'get over it'.
It's like the voices in my head want me to stop,
as if all my pieces are an old history museum:
ghosted by my insecurities, crept on by the rodents of my breakdowns.

What if all that exists of me is 206 bones tied together with a falsified ambition?
What if all my writings are just worthless wails on pale yellow paper of struggle that I'm destined to?

I listen to other people's worded ramblings on life, philosophy, or some concept my seven braincells can't begin to comprehend while I continue to write about, uh-well, myself.
Imagine the egotism to assume that someone would want to read these cries, let alone open themselves to be influenced by some rando's thoughts despite knowing nothing of their true purpose.

I wish to write about the first fall of rain,
about the blue skies,
about some abstract part of nature
that makes you go: 'ooh'.

While,

all I can write about is my thousandth teardrop,
about the grey skies of my own misery,
about some repetitive self-centred whining
that makes you go: 'ugh'

So yep, somedays, I don't want to pick up a pen.
Somedays, I can't choose if my emotions are pressing the keys, or each key's pressing my emotions.
Somedays, I don't feel like splattering my heart all over the keyboard.
Somedays, I just don't want to pick up a pen but today-

Today's not someday.

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