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.