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.