My Muck Cob Brie - cheesy poem

  Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably  burst asunder at the most inconvenient  opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,  taking a shower, or using the bathroom.  Accursed ambition becoming a prolific  scrivener (case in point Stephen King)    Woolworth ridding, oddly lumbering  lackadaisically shoehorning out this  being from a self made gully. The jury  yet to decree if attempting to extricate  muss elf from tangled web of decades  old setbacks via literary output successful.    Every morning, noon and night, this chap  blunders, flounder, (like a phish out of water),  yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured  person along the boulevard of broken dreams.    Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The  Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,  a previous saunter found me surmounting  The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these  Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire    telephone contact with Cell phone quickens  pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected  Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,  motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds  (The Dark Half), doomsday facet heftily jackknifing lust.    Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds  any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience  Joyland. IT (creative juices within spur meeting Rose  Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic  soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis  a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.    Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.  Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced  by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent  to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted  of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off  abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.    Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted LIX.  They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.  Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin  aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate  a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious  ill luck. Hell in a hand basket plight usually generates  nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Ole Virginny.    Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The  Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result  (The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)  sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative  futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.    Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named  Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)  along vista. The roads have no name. They command  stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested  to transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than  playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining    opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly  encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes  Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull  Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully  being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action    brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved  spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme  vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias  Mr. Mercedes reddit carefully Just in case The Girl Who Loved  Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus  her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical  po' wet ick feet took me where they would.