Working on the piece tomorrow and turning it into a short story. As of now it's untitled and has no ending, so when I finish that I will post it.
For now, here's an older poem...
The pressure of a blank slate is enormous. The sweat builds and builds and builds on my forehead until it drips onto the keyboard, seeping beneath the raised letters and out of sight. The lack of restriction is madness personified. The possibility of monotony hangs heavy over my head like a rain cloud in a childrens cartoon. Cigarettes burn and liquor stings and clichés knock at the door all night long. It's glorified solitude to the audience at hand. Sometimes the words come... and sometimes they are left behind to frolic in the breeze. What a cliché.