_pick up the pencil._
my mother told me
to make something,
but I didn't have the strength.
I didn't have the courage
to tell her that the pencils are suddenly
far
too
_heavy-_
"you have to start making art again."
mother, I've tried.
I've tried too many times to count.
I have spread out my pencils
and arranged my pallet
and taken inspiration till the pieces
blend, lose shape,
but everything has lost its color.
blues are so gray.
red is even grayer.
yellow is a sickly highlight,
and I can barely stomach
the near black shade of old purple.
and when I look up,
I remember that my world
has gone gray, too,
and I had forgotten
till now,
pencil shaking, paintbrush askew
between weak fingers.
why bother?
it's all the same color
anyway.
so I let the pencil drop.