He took a swig of vodka and got to going, couldn’t help but wonder all along whether or not these words that he wrote were, in fact, flowing
Whether or not what he wrote late at night, early in the morning was ever going to hit the spot
Jot it all down, what his friends had always told him to do, be terribly bold and forthright when it came to choosing the sentences that might, might not ooze appeal
Write that poem and move on, edit a little more but only so long as each word still feels real
The rhyme was beginning to cease, whichever way the pen went it just didn’t seem to please the one person who it should
There he sat, hood-headed with a half empty bottle of vodka in hand, fastened to his bed
The fear had set in and one thing he did know, that it was high time he steered clear of the thing he had always been warned about, the impending dread

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