Repeating only for there are no new ideas to be told.
No ways of making it fresh.
Only to take, tweak, and repeat it.

There has never been an original idea,
Ask Shakespeare,
He knows that feeling of having once prize work,
Taken in by a new voice,
But somehow,
That echo . . . of that voice,
Cares little to what the true owner held.

But if anything,
They are not forgotten.

Just grinding . . . for the ears.

For they,
Those things now called,
Clichés . . .
Are now just seen pretty on paper,
But when heard from a voice,
Not the owner,
It feels empty.

In any cases,
Those who use clichés,
Only mean that,
In everything in there was just as that.

A clone of another,
Having no deep point of changing it,
To make it their own and make it worth it,
To other’s ears.

But no!
The simple choice of saying and calling,
One’s work is easier,
And less hurtful on the brain!


If anything,
Remembering those words,
Just to seem smart or better than others,
Would be more mind numbing.

That answer is simple.

If said wrong,
And another knows,
Than you have,
Been nothing but a copycat,
Looming endlessly that someday you could it work.

There is only a few times,
So if anything,
Remember this.

Words those that are easy to say,
Mean only that something before you,
Is hard . . .

But to see something so easy,
Means that making the words,
Come out is hard . . .

And that only means!
I repeat!
Only means you tried,
Win or lose,
You tried to think beyond what you,
A err of human kind,
Did what others would look up?
Something fancy,
And it seem like it was hottest thing off the press.

So in the end,
Use those little clichés,
Because didn’t go your way,
But when you finally speak of something new . . .

Let me know,
To hear if you’d really did try.

Until then,
My friend,
And may the new words flow,
As oozing lava,
Burning into stone before you,
For those words are your own.
And no one can take them and do what you have done.

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