You pierce me.
You put me in the dark,
I can't move, and you take me and you pierce my flesh,
For your own beneift.
You use me.
You bleed me dry,
Wiping my blood onto your pages,
For a memento.
You discard me.
You tear me out, and toss me aside,
Ready for the next of us,
All for your goodness.
Ultimately, do we really mean so little?
You try and try, but you can't be rid of us, not really.
We're still here, our legacy, our "mementos",
And our shells, our plastic, blue shells.
This one's about my ink cartridges getting angry, because why not?