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writer’s block

A stiff drink has driven most points home, like a nail in the coffin, but it is difficult to follow words that make circular sounds. The blades of grass grow a shocking green. The light fades in and out between the whirling mower’s chopping lawns. Lazy, the force of my words have become, being forced through the pinhole of inspiration’s vaginal duct. I can’t get off to this shit anymore, the havoc created from the mighty obstacles placed in the paths of those who have chosen the difficult technique to master, and the pain teaches lessons that few things can heal properly. Call it a second wind from the narrow soul who breathes fire through straws in the face. Tormented by fearing the worries that appear with time and ages to come. Feelings of debt are shrugging away, and I know not what to do with myself yet. The fissures from the social pressure becomes a force to be reckoned with as I scale the mounts to take on epic conditions above me. My mind feels as yet still too young to pronounce pro-actively. I wonder what dysfunction puzzles my systems, and what the consequence will bring about to face me from the depths. Curvy is the ball thrown into my court, bouncing as it strikes the dirt, and making those whom have adapted to the “game” cough. An enjoyable sensation from a distance. How many yards away to stand, though?