The Plead

Having a dry spell is no walk in the park, itís no fun, itís like being in quicksand trying to run. Violently scraping my brain looking for words to put together, metaphors wrapped around neck like a freshly knit turtleneck sweater. Stuffing letters inside my mouth gagging on verbs, filling my shoes with cement and dropped off the pier into the sea of rambling ideas. Foul, evil and cruel, destroying peace and creating choas, stirring my mind in a bowl of tacks I look down to see punctuation leaking through the holes in my head, kicking dirt in my fucking face, prying my eyelids open only to be sprayed with mace. You are a disgrace, hypocritically profane, you kiss your mother with that mouth? Iím cutting the wire, Iím no longer your puppet, your bitch, free from all the negativity you are a liar. Iíd pull your card but it seems your whole life has already been a game, so sit back and watch as I sign my name with this blood oath to give writerís block a new name.
Written by Calligraphee
Author's Note
I wrote this about the foul beast that plagues us sometimes as writers.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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