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