He knows not how the toner trails,
I know how my conduits drain themselves.
Forming a queue while spitting blood
They’re an anemic residue.
He knows not how to freshen my palate,
With warmth, I see no remedy
My so-fatigued heart,
I was a monochrome in plastic wares.
I wasn’t a prototype, but a derivative.
Seclusion I abhor, indeed my life too