Garroting Thoughts Poem by Prideless Idiot

Garroting Thoughts

I sit trying to soak in reality, and I get shocked in angsty, sprinting within my chair to spur up mashed worded fantasy.
Supercharged brain starts imprinting ideas into itself, occasionally lifting up a hand on health and transferring data through a calf.
But when time came to see my computer, all the flames and sparks slipped through the disappearing user.
Sitting at the forefront of the medium in my existence, I stay frozen and still in resistance, body vegetablizing with renaissance, but mind sprinting through nonexistent barriers that annul when in non-permittance.
Try to move a single muscle, get detained and killed by the subconscious testicle.
Want to filter a thought through a porous filter, start feeling hands on my neck, time to contact my realtor.
Desire to look away, get a slap of reality, look back at my creative insanity.
Hours and days have passed with fool, my soul starting to become a ghoul, after a howl comes a serving in a thick bowl.
Apocalyptic subzero wasteland sits around an arid dry humid warm summertime, still in small homelands through rapids in due time.
The computer in front of me wants to suck me in, attempts to dispose of the trash in wanting to fill up its abyssal-like space within.
Mind tries to fill, but chooses the wrong stilled input measure, increasing the fog and haze around the area, smoking my teeth as sacrifice, shouting to denounce dentifrice.
After settling, the mind, body and soul chickling feel more stable, a person about to howl, stand up and label.
See nothing, feel a kick from behind, kneel in front of your creator.
I look up to nothing, get caught off guard, an aura of stoning.
Spirit wants to leash, gives me an avenue to unleash.
After momentous talk, I am led to an apparent standstill, of time, space, emotion, and chalk.
I feel a tug from my brain, wanting to bring me to a garden vein.
My head pulls itself along, an empty path it leads too long, leaving behind a red carpet, imprint and impression strong.
Path to paradise feels red, legs felt with clog embed.
The final destination however, views in reverse moreever, a place of forever.
I slowly accept what is in view of me, sitting beside two people, seemingly having a romantic felony.
I see another woman in view, apparently interested in my hue.
I tried to stand up to greet her, but she grabbed my head and kissed me, while pushing me back against a tree.
I was on cloud nine, even in seventh heaven, literally.
After her breakaway, I had another one too, from life.
I stand in a true abyss, but it doesn't feel so amiss.
My previous landscape and life felt like eternity with hell, ringing throughout the sound of a bell.
This vast emptiness feels adventurous, far more peaceful and porous, giving space for development of lotuses.
I feel more lively, ready to conquer the space full of blasphemy.
I can't wait to spend my life doing nothing, oh wait, I always have been.

Writing a poem should be a fun process, things come naturally, and you know just what to write. But what happens when the juices just dry out, and you are unable to write anything?
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