I’m staying away from writing on purpose
Subconsciously. It’s not that I’m not able to write,
It’s just when I sit with a paper and a pencil, I’m
Blank. Empty. Burning. Bits of mind
Scattering away like leaves crumpling under a
Crushing foot’s crunch, crunch, crunch.
Am I afraid I can’t? Or won’t? 
What am I afraid of?
What is it that subconsciously bothers me so that I’m
Unable to write a single word unless I’m forced to?
What is it that strangles me?
Blank. Shrinking. Cringing. Darkness.
Intimidation. Others? Are they what frighten me?
How good they are, how much better they seem to me?
How frighteningly good?
I can never write like them.
Is that what I’m afraid I am?
I need to sort this out; I’m scared that I’m scared.
Why.
Self-doubt.
The single most blackest thing I fear.
I fear. 
It’s horrible.
It singes your soul.
Afraid, afraid.
That’s what I am. That’s what I’m
Afraid I am.
If I were good, why, what would I need be afraid of?
But I am able to, I’m sure of that, for a certain level
I have, I have.
Then why why why is it eating away
What is eating away at me
And why.
The fear- it’s crumbling me into pieces-
Pieces scattered on the road by a child-
But I can’t find my way-
And I’m afraid I never shall-
Stumbling, stumbling and alone,
Phantom voices want to help me
Phantom people want to see me
Praise me, tell me I’m ‘phenomenal’ 
And yet.
And yet.
And yet.