I complain that the world is not full of sun,
not full of vibrant colors that drip off my surroundings.
But I am the one making it gray.
I am the one that holds back the brush
and refuses to dip it in paint.
I am the one who won't let my words fertilize the flowers
so that they will blossom.
But maybe I want to live in grayscale,
or maybe I haven't found the confidence to paint the world.