Write. Write. Write.

Why can’t I fucking write?
As a writer I’m supposed to write, right?
It’s like I’m cursed with a never-ending flow of writers block.
No. That’s not true. I have ideas. I have plenty of ideas.
I’m just too lazy to write.
“Oh, you’re a writer?” they say

No.

A writer writes. I can barely write a complete sentence.
I jot down fragments of my mind instead of a real piece.
I don’t have anything interesting to tell.
Not a story or a fairy tale.
I could write about a girl, and how I fell in and out of love.
I could write about a boy, and list all the things I could write of.
But for now, I will write my thoughts on the walls
In empty hotel rooms where I keep my essence.
As I write this incomplete sentence.

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