I heard from a little bird that my brain is incapable of creativity. I believed it.

I occasionally take pleasure in a simple cup of tea while leisurely sitting on my windowsill before the morrow creeps in, reciting incomplete, novice poetry, not attempting to decipher the hidden meaning of these spoken words, but languidly enjoying their unfathomable values. 

No, no, no, wait! That's a lie, a bunch of bullshit, like what sort of scholarly facade am I playing? 

I'm just an ordinary person you'll probably walk past in your everyday life who sucks at poetry and doesn't attempt to become better! Though there was some truth to my words, as listening to the rain like an argument upstairs and swaying the tea in my mug in the midst of the caliginosity is something I could never not enjoy. 

Now what sort of act am I playing, that's an even bigger lie?! I'm just someone, a nobody at that! We'll probably never meet so I don't mind posting a bunch of garbage for fun.

Have a good day.