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...