The worst feeling in the world is having no inspiration no flow nothing to show even though you know its time for the dry streak to go even though nothings happened to bring out the creative side its like its curdling over my mind warps and bends trying to tend to my strange brains end i guess it depends on the soul abusing the ink and forcing it onto the page although dry streaks enrage because i have nothing to write that could hope to engage ill just write about what comes off of the top of my dome all alone all along the watchtower my god someones taking steel wool to my brain really scouring my thoughts and strange ideas or just good old daydreams it may seem like im crazy but quite frankly im becoming lazy i must apply myself to my poetic flow... ya know?