Fuck you Dixon Ticonderoga

For my constant bad luck, and lack of diction

That I can’t seem to get over. God,

Why erase when there’s traces of every past

Mistake just scribbled on vast blank pages.

Words that joust for dominance over my thoughts and ideas.

As I blink through stages of boredom and exhaustion,

Like strumming chords on an out-of-tune guitar.

Not far off from a jaguar in the jungle of poetry;

Absurd and numb to my effect on the rest of the ecosystem.

So, I sit on my bed humming and fidgeting until this

Writing utensil decides to stencil across the paper

Until the tall blonde becomes a midget

And I’m in need of a sharpener. I keep dulling

The graphite and before I know it,

There’s daylight, And my journal

Has run out of space. I’ve misplaced

My contact case, and grey residue on my lenses.

I feel the rush of lactic acid in my phalanges

as I bubble with pressure and pain, like a

Popcorn kernel that won’t pop. Perhaps

My chicken scratched ‘to-do’ list ought to find

A new person to accomplish its tasks.

I ask myself to try writing about heroes,

but can only envision the villains.

This lethal weapon against vampires

Or toddlers who are teething;

the last thoughts I think of before sleeping.

And then you cross my mind; I toss and turn

And the antagonist begins to sprint the last lap

around the soundtrack of my heart.

I should take up typing.