She brings it all to her particularly dastardly table
Has to
As these unimaginably exhaustive years do continue to yawn and poke her every known thing, the actual crazed need to finally breathe is something she cannot yet begin to imagine
How on earth can you love something you hate so very much
Sitting with hands in showered hair, the cigarettes catching ferocious hold of their petrifying own, she ponders a while
Attempts as best she shan’t to create the perfect smile – so preposterously unaccustomed by now
She fears she is undeniably changing
Or is she getting exactly what she yearned, to be the ultimate literary hack cliché
The need to write is all too sizable and well, can’t those who do remain simply see her bare – knuckle fight for its manic worth both between these dreaded pages time again and her own life – what a life, stretched atop that bed, any bed that roars to have her approval, chew on her pretty little carcass
Knows not how to place one foot ahead of the other, how to imagine a story so soberingly satisfying that those who do read, really read, cannot but marvel and mutter at a task at hand
But she Fucking hates to finger that page with spit upon – romanticised endeavours only the lonely can assuredly treasure
Over-used, -abused words, which tend to feel akin to blobs of Bic ink spewed upon said page
Waste of a thousand trees really, nothing but weird liquid existences courtesy of a million and one fleeted conversations where she was not there but for her harsh lesson in stolen vocabulary
Write shit ’til anything sticks, or so she begs herself to believe
The inevitable come-up-for-air is her greatest imagining right this minute as stickler fate would so have it
This thing is going down like the Titanic – at least there’ll be a story told