an older poem...
yes
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 children's 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.
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 children's 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.
"The pressure of a blank slate is enormous."
ReplyDelete"The possibility of monotony hangs heavy over my head like a rain cloud in a children's cartoon."
everything is cliche'( klişe )in this life except only a few things.A good writer just like you finds out those a few exceptions..