I Don't Want To

I don't want to write this poem, all these bad dreams that litter on my landscape, like all of these broken branches and these scattered leaves, aligned with the corpses of yesterday's intentions.

I don't want to sing this song, my voice is cracked and quite uneven, the notes don't ring that properly, especially with all of this malformed lyrics in my mouth, not to mention the guitar strings are broken.

I don't want to run away, my expectations are ruining my self esteem, I just want to become a hermit in some faraway cave.

I don't want to write this poem, but I can't seem to stop, the words just seem to keep on flowing like that river I don't like to think about, with the broken dam at the end.

I don't want to read this book, all of its colorful canvases and blank endings, waiting for you to turn the page, just to leave you with misinterpreted messages and questions.

I don't want to make this call, talking in tongues to an incomplete stranger on the other end of this world, when the keys are stuck down in my phone.

I don't want to write this poem, but I keep seeing these words in my mental, waiting to be formulated into a promise I know can't keep.

I don't want to open this door, all of these different ways to transform the opening of my future, like contemplating the wrist motion I should use when approaching it.

I don't want to hear this music, all of those rhyming lyrics destroying the instrumental made so delicately in that empty room.

I don't want to write this poem, but I don't know how to come to end, when my whole existence is built on pretending like I never started it.

I don't want to smell this flower, the pollen always trespasses on my face, like disturb adolescence on winter break.

I don't want to touch this pen, even though it drips permanent information from its core unintentionally marking everything in its path.

I don't want to write this poem, but I already did.