Why I write no more.

I can feel a story about me, right on the tips of my fingers,
Screaming at me from the back of my throat,
Racing across the tips of my nerve endings,
Clouding up the blacks in my eyes.

I write no more for I fear what I may write

I have a premonition of uncertainty,
That what I write may come to pass and the world may query me...
I worry about how you would take it, because all we have left is faith,
Blind, unflinching faith that it will get better in the coming days.

I write no more because my dreams are now only nightmares,
Of morbid creatures and fluffy demons
They keep inviting more in and they never plan on leaving.
I would tell you but your reactions may lead to my death,
So I become elusive to the ink, the paper, the 1's and 0's.

I write no more because all you ever say is nice post..

It feels like a memory etched in your keyboard,
It breaks my heart and makes me wonder if you ever care,
If you read because I ask you to or because you have nothing better to do,
It makes me feel there is no point to this, maybe I should disable the comment section or just quit this blog.
Do I write things out of your space, out of your realm, out of my fantasies that none can reach?
Is it a gift or a curse of a gift
Perhaps I'm lost, what are the benefits of these figures when thine actions are close to nigh?

I write no more because you wear me out, I wear me out like over grown denims, so perhaps I may give up the ink, burn down these papers and decode myself into nothingness.