Discussions is for the pigs

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...