I Can't Write

I can’t write,
Because I’ve realized that my pen bleeds lies
Onto naive blank pages
And leaves nothing but devastation and destruction inside of me.
I beg of you to leave me to deceive myself,
Because the blissful kiss of ignorance is more welcomed than realities hard fists.
I wish that the fists that beat me
Could, with each blow, erase and delete me.
I can’t write because my own words can’t complete me.
I am hollow.
An empty thought caught amiss deceit and delusion
Reducing me from my previous 'nothing' to my present 'non-existence'.
I can’t write,
Or attempt to fight these imaginary feelings.
I can’t write and then try to decipher these words’ meanings.
Let it rain upon my head,
And perhaps the rain will wash away the dread,
But what I mostly involve my thoughts in is praying that within the rain I will disappear and dissolve away.
My moral decay has painted my world a dull grey.
That’s the excuse I use for why I don’t want my conscience to stay,
So it can abandon me like every other facet of me,
As well as every single thing that surrounds me.
I can’t write.
Spitting white lies into the night’s sky
And thus the night replies with a solution that is to die,
And when I do, don’t cry, because I’ve found the truth, that this life is a lie, thus
I can’t write.