Old or New Stuff I wrote that's Drabbly, Poemy or Bothy.
Nov 11, 2015 18:49:59 GMT -6
Post by Kenni on Nov 11, 2015 18:49:59 GMT -6
I don’t want to write.
Sometimes writing gets me going you know?
I could ramble on like a mad hatter reciting mother goose with despairing fairy tales, and suddenly switch to comedic horror stories.
If you don’t find that the least bit entertaining I suggest you close your ears, back away and relocate to safesafe Idaho with the potatoes,
because I don’t want to write.
And when I don’t I could say anything while saying nothing, you know?
Like…in an epic of excursions to Earth’s epicentre
the three little hogs lived happily ever after
while the cow jumped over yonder moon playing pattycake with
the baker man who copied the cow as fast as he could
though his dish ran away with her spoon and--
are you gone yet? Have I scared you away yet?
What a waste of time, when I don’t want to write.
It’s one of the worst things, you know?
End up mismatching scenarios and stealing storylines more
unrelated than the socks a blind man chose to wear
fresh from the dryer.
Some don’t even make sense, the things I write when I want not to.
Sort of like if the blind guy put underwear on his other foot;
forget the mismatch sock.
And why couldn’t he tell the difference?
Was it because he had never learned the difference, like I
don’t know the difference between a good piece of writing
and a waste of paper when I don’t want to write?
And would he know how to think about my confusing
philosophical metaphors like that?
Should he? A bakerman would. They’re smart fellow, yeah…
He used to be the bakerman, you know. He’s only
blind because he made a bet with a cow one fine afternoon
about an intense round of pattycake that he could beat her in, and he lost, and the cow not only
won the match but maimed out his eyes on the last stretch of the jump over the moon in agreement of his punishment should he lose,
but the cow has was actually me in disguise,
because I specialize in insane rambling and out of the way bets such as such.
But he didn’t know that, Mr. Bakerman, and now he’s lost his job;
YOU try baking without knowing if you’re kneading the bread or kneading the stovetop..
..needing an ambulance..
Yo no though, it’s all good since the 3 blind mice took him in.
To protect them from the baker’s wife, was it?
And the carving knife?
But that’s a story I can’t get into since
I really really don’t want to write.
But maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.
~9th grade study hall circa 2006 (DAAATED MYSEEELF LALALAAA B] )
Sometimes writing gets me going you know?
I could ramble on like a mad hatter reciting mother goose with despairing fairy tales, and suddenly switch to comedic horror stories.
If you don’t find that the least bit entertaining I suggest you close your ears, back away and relocate to safesafe Idaho with the potatoes,
because I don’t want to write.
And when I don’t I could say anything while saying nothing, you know?
Like…in an epic of excursions to Earth’s epicentre
the three little hogs lived happily ever after
while the cow jumped over yonder moon playing pattycake with
the baker man who copied the cow as fast as he could
though his dish ran away with her spoon and--
are you gone yet? Have I scared you away yet?
What a waste of time, when I don’t want to write.
It’s one of the worst things, you know?
End up mismatching scenarios and stealing storylines more
unrelated than the socks a blind man chose to wear
fresh from the dryer.
Some don’t even make sense, the things I write when I want not to.
Sort of like if the blind guy put underwear on his other foot;
forget the mismatch sock.
And why couldn’t he tell the difference?
Was it because he had never learned the difference, like I
don’t know the difference between a good piece of writing
and a waste of paper when I don’t want to write?
And would he know how to think about my confusing
philosophical metaphors like that?
Should he? A bakerman would. They’re smart fellow, yeah…
He used to be the bakerman, you know. He’s only
blind because he made a bet with a cow one fine afternoon
about an intense round of pattycake that he could beat her in, and he lost, and the cow not only
won the match but maimed out his eyes on the last stretch of the jump over the moon in agreement of his punishment should he lose,
but the cow has was actually me in disguise,
because I specialize in insane rambling and out of the way bets such as such.
But he didn’t know that, Mr. Bakerman, and now he’s lost his job;
YOU try baking without knowing if you’re kneading the bread or kneading the stovetop..
..needing an ambulance..
Yo no though, it’s all good since the 3 blind mice took him in.
To protect them from the baker’s wife, was it?
And the carving knife?
But that’s a story I can’t get into since
I really really don’t want to write.
But maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.
~9th grade study hall circa 2006 (DAAATED MYSEEELF LALALAAA B] )