I Don’t Want to Write

I don’t want to write
because I write from all my pain.
I don’t want to write
because the hurt still remains.
These letters are my tears;
these words are my lamentations.
This poetry is my censure.
I keep quiet in the dark, dark corner of my mind,
wishing there was someone I could talk to,
someone who understands,
someone who does not judge.
The thorns picket my heart;
the hurt chokes my being.
My silence pierces my soul,
breaks down my armours,
crushes my sword.
A lot of things I want to say;
a lot of things I want to ask.
And I dare not do as I know
the tides will be turned against me too.
The moment I ask, I am left in yesterday:
in a flash flood of my shortcomings,
in a pool of my lies and deceptions,
a quicksand I can never get out of.
I don’t want to write because it hurts me.
I don’t want to write because it reminds me.
I don’t want to write because it restricts me.
I don’t want to write because it kills me.
But writing is my only solace.
Writing is my only friend.
Writing is my only consolation.
I don’t want to write, but I can’t not write.