My inability to pick up a pen and write

Seems to set my future in stone as

The poet who could not write the very emotions he did not have

Or as my relatives whisper

Just like his brother, wasted potential

Had a promising future, whoops

This seems to be the one change I can handle

Unlike my grandparents moving to a new house or my uncle dying

Because sometimes it appears easier to hide my pens and burn my books

Than getting up and forcing it all out

Forcing all the ugly truths I write in poetry I can't bare to reveal

Now writing feels like a foggy dream I can barely remember

A place in my past I don't recall compared to everyone else

Simply drifting