Living in this yellow box filled with aging trinkets
A lonely guy trying to get by just hasn't sealed the link yet
Bout a cup of milk left in the fridge and God forbid I drink it
A shaggy dog; that ***** hog, why can't they smell the stink yet?
The junk comes barreling through the door so fast that you can blink it
There's no more room for gloom and doom, but let's fit one more inkjet
They just got rid of dinnerware,  a silver and a pink set
So now to hoard an ancient sword, a blender and a mink set
Five garbage bags of someone's clothes, the sixth one's in the sink, wet
With lots of cans and pots and pans, we'll reach the jagged brink yet
They're trying to let go, said there ain't no space to think yet
They're workin hard to raise the bar, ain't  worked out all the kinks yet

Pressed for time and low on space
****** I need to get out of this place...

“You like too much!” she said to me.
“Make up your mind!” she cried.

An inkjet cartridge emptied of its contents
The things it could have produced, if given enough time.

She
was allowed to eat poetry, the ink dribbling down her lips,
Soaking her shirt in the black stains of abstract words,
Distracting comparisons, and personified stones coming to
Life.

She
resurrected lithograph golems,
who groaned at the consumption of their
Content.

But me?

Why does my pencil glide across the page?
I should have taken to the study of flesh and blood
unlike the girl who speaks in tongues.

Perhaps…
Perhaps she’s right.
Perhaps the world doesn’t need another performer on the world’s stage.
Perhaps… there are already far too many.

My tongue ripped out,
My brain purged and washed.
No more slicing into pages
With my graphite-knife.