I walk inside, dull and dreary. Into a dark tunnel that smells of mediocrity. Stinking like stale cake.Battered and whipped into a batter only to be baked into a work of some hypocrite. They call themselves writers. They pick up different ingredients of originality to make a stupid, plagiarism of a recipe. It stinks gross, like snot and puke and bile. I let it wash out of me, but I cannot get rid of this static reaction, so I let myself get poisoned.A result of rusting creativity that cannot stand this awful smell of sham. My brain is still, but confused thoughts are waltzing like lack luster pearls around my bloodied head. More chunks of my original insides rush out, in an attempt to free! Fear burns my throat like acid. I sense it coming up my throat. I'm going to throw up again.And again. And again...
They will always be human. They will decay and our work will live even when the nibs of our imagination numb and the ink of our passions cease to flow. Like a cow they will chew and chew onto our independence until our nerves shred and our gray cells disintegrate.
I until then, choose to nauseate and throw up instead be the slave of a vile monarch in the guise of timid democrat. Bawling my words at him.
Just Throwing up not giving up.