Writer's Block Experimentation: Trial 2

The strange inner workings of the mind: 

Silly, silly, silly girls with silly, silly, silly names
But I, the silliest of them all, with the silliest name, am no better than these silly creatures
With their silly desires, and silly trifles, and silly hearts
I am just as stupid as they, just as vulnerable and silly, silly, silly
But I wish I were not like these silly girls with their silly hearts and silly words
I wish I were not silly at all, just a regular not silly, silly, silly girl
With a heart that isn’t silly and no trifles at all
 
How about a rhyme?

I don’t shine
I don’t whine
Let’s drink wine
How about dine?
Will you be mine?
 
Lame lame lame
You’re so lame
Lame lame lame
This is lame
Blah blah blah
What a shame
Get It done
La la la
Have no fun
This sucks this sucks this sucks

And there it lie, the promising career of a young writer, dead. THE DEATH OF THE ART. The death of her passion. No career to leave behind a lasting impression. Nothing.  No one will remember the silly, silly, silly girl, or her silly, silly, silly heart.

​Fin.