Discussion Is For THe Pigs

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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

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