Waking is frustration,
An armless man’s itch,
Words on a mute tongue.
My to do list is crumbled
Under the exhaustive weight of boredumb.
And I gave up television
To sit in front of a blank computer screen,
Sporadic lines of text,
An instant of brilliance
Lost to the backspace key.
I reached my creative peak
At the age of nine.
Then I packed up my Barbies,
Put my costumes in the attic,
Closed my eyes
And watched the ink drain from my pen.