I used to think in complete sentences.

Now I hold my words for ransom—

Coming to me in blurbs and cartoonish bubbles.

A flash of what I want to spin on paper,

Bare bones of poignancy,

But cannot make it outside of caricatures.

Imitation is the highest form of flattery

Unless it is intellectual property

And then all I have in my possession is a vacancy sign to hang on my forehead:

Artistry foreclosed on,

Manufactured cookie cutter houses—

Subdivisions of bland, beige nightmares;

I gag on its crumbs

And wash it with a tall glass of tired tropes.

I still taste the semblance of vanilla—

And the copper of my blood by death of a thousand cuts,

Wafer shards that reddened my throat—

Plucking superficial wisdom from the depths of your pretention.

Deprivation will be the death of me.

No amount of sleep will ever be enough when it’s my soul that needs rest.