Blah, Bleh

I want to write

But don’t want to write.

I want the words to be on paper (or on the screen)

And I want to feel sated,

that sense of  the truest, real me

that seems to come most profoundly

after I have composed

my heart, blood, tissue and marrow

Into nice rows of verbs, nouns, adverbs, and adjectives.

But I don’t want to have to work for that reward today.

I don’t feel like it.

I feel rather

Blah, bleh

words themselves lacking in poetry.

My attempt today is not

pretty,

nor satisfying. 

In fact, 

It looks, well, 

blah, bleh.

And I don’t want

blah, bleh.

So I don’t want to write.