Lose the Cliche.

To Find The Girl.
Such a cliched topic,
He attempts to escape the ever-tempting cliche
But just as he can't escape the topic
His thoughts wander over previously-scripted ground

Does abstraction lend a hand,
Or does it surreptitiously extend an empty glove
To cloak the substance's supposedly axiomatic nature
A facade both broad and unassuming.

No, abstraction is merely the more euphonious option.
A pleasant sound that will pass away, leaving nothing tangible to clutch at
Desperately.

Intangible? The beating inside his head. Unrelenting throbbing. Painfully intangible.
Only to clutch at the source of the pounding, to be its tool of eradication. A worthy substitute of the pill.
The pill is never granted entry, blocked by a wall supposedly composed of stamina, yet truly pioneered by reluctance to descend into the unknown.
If it is a descent. That is the fear-fathering question. Once unknown is empirically known, will you prevail higher than you previously stood,
or will you have fallen, lost ground. Hardly applicable to the current situation, for it is merely unknown in his own eyes, society proports to have full understanding.
Through empirical, theorectical and conjectural findings, society knows everything. Why then doubt it? What gives his meta-physically inspired conceptions any authority.
To disregard society, in pursuit of an undiscovered truth. Certainly noble. Its rationality, questionable. Yet nobility rarely coincides with rationality.

The pun not intended but it is not by his intention in which you will judge his intellect,
it is an objective analysis of the product, and through his words,
a well-constructed pun is evident. To most. That is to assume the readings of a majority, an inevitably erroneous activity. For its apparency may only be reigning clear in the mind of the author.
It may be in fact, that in principle (if any be clear-cut), there is grammatically no pun at all, let alone a well-constructed one.
To delve deeper, would be to only feed the previously labeled intangible throbbing of his head, and increase his frustration at its intangibility.
Certainly an unrewarding pursuit. 

To retire now. The thought lingers. To weigh the benefits of sleep, against the elusive, but certainly ennobling pleasure of writing. How ennobling it is.
To bring about such a discourse, far removed from that unknowingly employed in every-day speech. Carelessly pontifical? Or rather, endearingly contemplative.

Only the reader to decide, and for the author to show stern stolidity. If only such an author could show stern stolidity, for otherwise the emancipation
of his categorical thoughts onto an equally restricting screen would not be a prioritized endeavour.

To retire now. The thought stumbles upon an atypically assertive affirmation.

Good Night.