Inside of a carpenter's box
Sweating out of my cheeks
Grumbling like a hound
Feeling like a small chip of bacon
Deciding whether to drink wine
I just brushed my teeth

I'll drink water, wash that toothpaste out
Poison and I are acclimated at this point
Coffee or Cigarettes, you name it
I'm figuring out what this butter knife is doing
Sitting next to my computer with a serrated edge
I used it to stir my tea

Gathering my thoughts I recall that I sit here
My thoughts are interrupted by a siren
Why does the siren always seem to call for me
Writing way too fast

Seven ages ago. That was 15. This is 22.
I miss twenty. I wrote freely and innocently at 20.
I lied about my innocence at 22, but the memory remained clean.
Ah, good riddance.
Let failures rouch themselves off to the plains to die.

Investing crackers into my mouth