Habit Creature Trying to Write

I don't like cotton candy blizzards anymore,

Yes, even this creature of habit can change.

I want to be a writer but oh shit does that mean

I have to do what I am most afraid of.

If so, how does one fix a will that is strange?

I want to avoid it like the plague, but my plague is a faltering expression.

Red light turns green then red then green and fuck!

I’m swearing again and I don't do that often, but then again this creature of habit can change?

I’m always on yield, swerving in a roundabout.

‘Cause I never edit an idea, madness hardly makes me know how,

What if this engine stops churning genius,

 And I am left alone, to ponder in a labyrinth that I dug myself?

To stay frozen in the ice, in the creative part of this mind I mean brain I mean broken hardware, I’m sorry my creativity failed me you get what I’m trying to say.

When I just wanted one second to not feel guilty 

about a sugar cookie, crumbled of course from the crushing weight of books, 1984 if you're nosy, Mr. Orwell I feel suffocated from a different form of tyranny.

To say a sweet tooth and that whole reject Halloween candy bullshit when I was 11 still doesn’t screw with my fucking mind and body is a murky lie.

 But this was about writer’s disease and

so how did we get here? My mind is strange,

But creatures of habit can change?

Editing because the jump from good to great is scarier than

letting all the intrusive thoughts bleed on the worn out page.

When my mind fails to create I am the plague,

And my empty notebooks yearning for my ideas are deeply afraid.

But when I stop freaking out I realize the true and strange.

I can write today if I really tried,

Cuz creatures of habit can change.