Oh,
murdered and processed,
mechanically stitched together,
tree.
If handed to me,
the best I can draw
is an inebriated sea.
The stick man drowning
in the middle is waving at me.
Sketchpad,
you laugh at me.
A single strike
of this poorly drawn match,
could lead me to arsony.
My mind & body:
no longer in harmony.
Putting pencil to paper
makes me wish I was elsewhere:
on another caper.
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