A girl smoking with pale white skin and a devil in her chest looks at me from her quiet home on my faux wooden desk. Wires snake out from behind her, encircling my electric domain. I’m tied down, and my eyes are lost in the blinding white of the computer screen. The keys click and letters come into existence, forming words attempting to form thoughts and worlds. Melodrama runs rampant and insecurities flair as entire paragraphs are translated from gray to black, then deleted by the twitch of a finger. My stories are hiding tonight, my poems are refusing to be written and my characters are on strike. There is a big wall of steel and lead in front of me, hopelessly tall and miles thick. I’ll put my head down and sprint straight ahead, teeth barred like a mad dog, and pray to Jesus, Buddha, and Marilyn Monroe that my stubborn dream addled head is strong enough to break through.
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Love the marilyn monroe comment at the end. was that to tie in the pale smoking girl in the beginning? Very nice.
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