Behind my typewriter

My fingers hover above the keys. There is nothing to say. It's all been said before. What was I thinking? What's the point of words if they're never new? Why say what's been said over and over before? I do not know what to write.

I could write about love. But my love is long gone. I am not made for love. I have tried time and time again but I cannot love. I am too cold, too distant. My heart cannot be one with another person's.

I could write about family. But I have never had one of those. No one wants to hear about a family torn apart by hatred and misery. The screaming, the shattered plates, the slammed doors are my burden.

I could write about life. But I don't have a life. Work has consumed me. I am just a machine, automated. I am nothing but a puppet and capitalism holds my strings, making me dance to its wicked song.

They say write what you know, but I know nothing. Today is another blank page. There is once more nothing to be said. I have lost myself and the words that my soul held.