Just like the title says. I’m brainstorming to kill a really annoying writer’s block. Just to inform you – wall of text. I would break it up if I could tell where one part started and the other ended.

This took about thirty minutes to write. Not this little segment, the five different parts. I've got about ten or fifteen pages of material. My hand was cramped afterwards. Random thoughts from the abyss of my mind, so to speak. Funny thing is, even though I’m drunk, I still seem to have a halfway decent vocabulary capability.

Enjoy, if you can force yourself to. Tell me if you did. Otherwise, I won't bother posting up the other four parts - it's honestly so incoherent that I barely liked it afterwards.

I can’t think cohesively, so I’ll do the next best thing,
spewing endless kilos of mind vomit.
One of my old friends from Ohio visited me this Sunday.
She’s a little scene, I’ll grant her that,
but she’s sure developed.
I’m not to prejudice against those I’ve still got a shot with.
That Poison concert she went to is still coursing through her veins,
and though she doesn’t dig that sort of thing,
she still went. I mean, she missed school, am I right?
I’d do the same thing.
Not the glam metal bull of course, and neither would she.
But we’d be fine chilling at a Say Anything concert.
Another guy I met from England was there too.
He’s a cool guy, but he’s really German.
The military has an odd sense of irony,
the sort of ****-happens mentality.
If I get all choked up in a little bit, make sure I remember
the ocean liner incident a year ago, where I got a free pass
to see some colorblind dude hit red spots
on a black and blue canvas.
It was touching, but afterwards, I met the guy,
and he was a shameless rat. No sense of propriety.
I’ve seen better gigs in Manhattan,
where all the aliens gather in clusters by post offices.
They’d beam each other up into the night sky
where they’d get bird’s eye views
of thing they can’t do a thing about.
Like a guy beating the crap out of another guy’s car
with a crowbar, somewhere in Pennsylvania,
or at least in the general direction.
Getting of topic now.
I should refocus a bit.
My resounding failure at previous eloquence
should be the topic, remember? The ants in my pants
eating hungrily at my pelvis, where the hurt really is.
All my friends laughed heartily, slapping knees,
as my misery increased tenfold, screams of agony,
honey glazed and slathered in chipotle. Sounds delicious,
doesn’t it? It’s the only way to express myself.
They do what they want. Uncaring villainous fiends.
I’ll hire someone if I’ve got the money,
a mackdaddy, someone with connections,
enough to hate on them, at least.
They’d tell him to hold back, to which he’d respond
with insults that I choreographed,
who’s the baby now? Who’s the pussy now?
Sure they’d like a heap of mercy now, but
the last halfway decent swing jazz acoustic bull**** excuse for a song
ain’t halfway through.
That’s in Webster now, you know.
The bastardized language of my grandpapa.
But in all reality,
Dana’s giving Hayley a run for her money,
right about the time Catherine comes in to break it up,
and I’m just looking for kicks now
with three people I’ll never have shots with.
I’d like to see them duke it out,
because I’m an arrogant prick in that way.
Thinking that somehow, despite the improbability,
I’m still the puppet master. Well,
turns out I’m dying of tuberculosis,
soaking my kilt halfway through
with lungs imploding deep under my ribs.
So once I’m done with this,
take my words as poetry.
As tragic, deep, heartfelt sincerities.
Laughing it off, I tell you,
that I’m just trying to break a writer’s block.
I wonder if you’ll buy it.
Hmm... If you would of wrote this about 50 years ago they would have called it art. It kind of reminded me of "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. What is the "swing jazz acoustic bull**** excuse for a song" you speak of?
Quote by whatgoeson
Hmm... If you would of wrote this about 50 years ago they would have called it art. It kind of reminded me of "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. What is the "swing jazz acoustic bull**** excuse for a song" you speak of?

Tbh, it's both a degradation on labelling bands by genre, as well as a reference to a song called "the last great punk rock song" by Say Anything, which is actually really good.
I hate this. I'm not one for this kind of writing. My personal preferences.

BUT, the line breaks, with VERY few exceptions, were excellent. The quality of the writing was good, but the content was total ****, IMO.
I think people don't have much to say about this. This piece was merely for you and only you. I read it, enjoyed reading it, and that's it. Maybe it's entertaining to read attempts of curing the block. I hope youkeep posting things, even if they're only for your sanity.
It's obvious this is really personal to you, which makes it a bit harder to crit then it would be if it were more ambiguous.

I feel (basically) the same way that seventh_angel does.
I like to think I'm a poet, but it's all rather contrived...

...bliss is found in not just ignorance, so stop looking there.

Here's to wondering how much this sig is screwing with your eyes.

[url="http://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?p=21538427#post21538427[/url"]Freud's Lunchbox