Whenever I sit down and try to create something,

the same thing always happens.

I get reminded of how little creativity I have,

and how being creative

No longer brings me happiness.

I write a sentence, I draw a line, I paint a picture.

I used to love being creative.

I got awarded for my colorful pictures.

pieces of paper given for pieces of paper.

Each as worthless as the other.

Somewhere along the way,

that light left me.

Drained every last drop of color.

Now, whenever I pick up a paintbrush or Prismacolor,

instead of feeling the familiar comfort in the wooden handles and vibrant colors,

I feel nothing.

Like holding a stick from the backyard.

To some it can be anything,

but to me.

It's simply,

just a stick.