I have a block on my brain and a clock in my mouth and I'm tasting each second.
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For days I've swallowed the hours.
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Striking worth into the air with words like arrows that were stuck into my knees;
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To pin me to the chair, to force me to write,
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I've got a pencil and a thousand thoughts but my wrists won't move.
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Why are my thoughts the flies on a rot aloft each other in persuasive decay?
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Their decay is my demise.
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I control this square with just enough space to envelop an affliction.
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They are all dead to me.
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They are all DEAD.
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Oh no, it's a comfortable rape!
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Unlike any normal respite, this canon-style boredom is a crippling image.
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Ready to pop at any moment, red-faced children can't vomit.
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Insignificantly hopeful, they are pulling on these coiled limbs;
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they are taught and confined.
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In this environment I am my own destruction.
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Relying so heavily on every possible sketch...
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procrastination...lost cause...knowing nothing...
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-----------------
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Discussions Is For The Pigs
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| Folly |
