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Oh cursed redundancy that has swaddled my brain in cobwebs of repeated words and notions and feelings and ideas, fie upon you!
So fertile of mind and sound of body was I but your lethargy has gotten the better, the best and worst of me.
What have you left me with, but mediocrity!?
You’ve encased my writing hand in a gauntlet of lead, I cannot lift it, it weighs like the dead.
In retrospect though, you’re me and I am you, it’s true, but mercy! I prithee, mercy on me, I am wayward lost in this forest of pedestrian ideas and emotions.
I yearn to feel something stronger, motivating!
Break my heart again, for in that was a flood of feeling that let loose the waters of agony.
Bring me the drama in the graphite cup of a keyboard. Bring me anything, but please, take away the painless pain… take away the mundane….What I’d give to feel a little insane.
My straitjacket of words is threadbare, my lines that shackled me are rusty.
My prose needs some Viagra, my appeals, some caffeine.
So once more, I beseech you, uncompromising god of writers, take pity on me, St. Francis de Sales and give me the Midas touch of ink and paper.
Or erase what little you’ve made me hopeful for…