Why can’t I write words like you can, words spanning an empty page, written in beautiful cursive? Why can’t I make my words speak of a sunset, pastel colors slurring into one another? Why can’t I tell you of the ocean, all the shades of blue, like a giant watercolor painting?

Why can’t I paint a picture for you, a picture made of the words that fill my head? They won’t come out the way they do for you. Why can’t I see the mountains, and feel creativity stir deep inside me, spilling from their very points?

I want to make my words speak to you; speak to you of my sadness and pain, of my anger, of my happiness and joy. I want you to read my words, and catch a glimpse into my mind.

Why can’t I write words like you can, typing the letters out on a typewriter? Why can’t I write a letter, a letter to you, a letter of my soul?

Why can’t I write the beautiful words like you?