Blocked

no new ideas, stuck, nothing fresh going on, got a habit that I hate, got a cat that shits a lot, man does that need cleaning up, blocked, I hope you don’t upset the cat. He pressed the button, the machine, it produced a rhythm, a beat, he put a few lyrics over it, adjusted the volume, played them low played them high, a bit like a lotto player, fancy word for a gamble, how he frame words, sounds better, compulsive deniers, when we don’t like the news, we turn it off, the head can only hold so much. Imagine it, the stuff the head has to hoard, the so called important stuff, the stuff going back years. Unless it’s the heart, why would it be important?

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