Hiding in my typerwriter from madness.

I sit here in my dirty hotel room

With only the company of my own madness

As the heavy dark rains of January fall outside

I put that blank piece of paper into my old dusty typerwriter

In hopes of hiding from it

I feel that madness coming out the end of my finger tips

and through the typerwriter onto that blank piece of paper

The worst kind of madness for a writer

Is that blank piece of paper stuck in their typerwriter

Thats what killed Hemingway

That blank piece of paper stuck in his typerwriter

My madness was thirsty

So I ventured out into the dark rains of January

Getting it a twelve pack of beer

In hopes of drowning it

While drowning my madness

I picked up the novel

 On The Road

By Jack Kerouac

It’s taking me  awhile to fully read it

On account that I’m always on the road myself

I imagined that I was a trapped fly in the back seat window

of that Hudson as  Jack and Dean raced across the country in the late fortys

On The Road

After that great Beatnik American dream

I was finally free from my own madness now on Rout 66

Going 88 mile an hour.


Working on this one again.

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  1. hi,

    well niece piece of work…..explaining ur view of thing …. u seem writing a heart touching poetry where u r in dielemma what to do what not to do…. do something wich suites u and brings out good of u….


  2. LOVE IT —” blank piece of paper” — another line for FEAR if you think of yourself as a writer in any sense of the word. Inspiration is always welcome – though at times does not choose to visit. — It presented itself well here.

    Thanks for sharing


  3. Awesome poem, although I had to read a few comments before realizing that it actually was a poem, not a post about the madness of blank pages. And thank you for mentioning Hemingway. I was meaning to read something by Hemingway, until a more poetic novel caught my eye.

    Anyway, all tangents aside, this was truly a magnificent piece of work.

    Peace with pens and fight with swords,

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