The art of not writing

What I love to do:

If there's one thing I truly love doing
It's to write
The scratch of a pen against paper
Recharges my batteries
The clack clack clack
Of a typewriter, keyboard
They are the air I breathe in
I take out my notebook with a sense of pride
When people tell me they can't remember
When they last wrote something
Because to write is to create
Letters unique to me
A page filled with squiggles
To be found nowhere else


What I'm good at doing:

I have stories built up in my mind
Like skyscrapers displayed on construction sites
That are nothing more than empty land
With a worker's hut in a corner
When I can't sleep at night
I build these stories even higher
I know them from beginning to end
But I can't write them
They don't pour out of my fingers
Staining paper with ink
So I close my notebook
Hide it because I'm ashamed
Ashamed of its blank pages
Ashamed of the unused pen
Ashamed that I've mastered
The art of not writing

Quiet

I want to reach out
But I don't know how
So I swallow my words
I choke on them

You think I don't care
Because I never ask
But can't you see
These words are stuck in my throat

I want to tell you
Everything you want to hear
But I can't move my lips
My mouth is so dry

You wait for me to speak
But your patience runs dry
So you walk away
And I choke to death