Of All The Cliches

I'm tired, but invigorated, by a string of life-shifts lately. So today, I'm switching things up.

Instead of crafting a story for this snippet—as I have these past 85 days—I gave myself a writing challenge. The game is to write a list of cliches, then adjust them enough to where they stand on their own. I hope the result creates a half-decent poem. Let the games begin:

When getting hit by a bus feels like finding cloud nine,

and running on fumes gets you out of the box.

Let go your bated breath and shatter your glass.

Sleep like a brick, like an ox, on the side of the fence...

where the green grass grows free.

Then, test the bark and the tree—

dig up the whole garden.

Swoop in on-time,

with the whole can of worms.

Spring for the low-hanging fruit;

the whole enchilada, the kit, the caboodle.

Be the bottomless mug, full of tea, at a party in Boston.

Be a roman candle that never knows doubt—

the loosest cannon on the tightest ship.

Shine bright like a spark

that never goes out.

And when birds of a feather make themselves right at home.

Be the book that gets read, but not judged.

But do know your shit, cover to cover.

Just be yourself as you are—

Be cliche like no other.