Snort. Moody much?

I am in despair. Nail-biting, hair wrenching, tantrum-throwing despair.
I suppose I've finally accepted that I can't write. Truly. And if I wasn't so goddamn PRETENTIOUS I could simply get on with my life. But I can't. It goes against my nature. My so-called intellectual nature. Pretentious indeed.
Let me explain: I am a mockingbird. Which is to say that I can mimic- oh yes, I'm incredibly skilled at that- but I have not a drop of creativity in my body. I have the desire, heavens yes, but to be completely honest- I am a thief. I write what I read. Which is why I can sometimes be mistaken for a writer- in that I grasp syntax, and the whole art of stringing words together- but words essentially hate me. This is why it takes me six hours to write a 1-page paper. Every time I sit down to write, a horrifically bloody battle between me and my vocabulary takes place. Words just... don't like me. If only the feeling was mutual. And this, as I've finally figured out, is why poetry just refuses to be my friend.
Hmph.
(*cough cough * EMO *cough cough*)