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.
Note.
Working on this one again.
3 Comments
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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….
–anujjha
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
bkmackenzie
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,
Gilda.