I'm bored of the scenery, the looks
There's only seven story books
Written for children, with basic plots
How can this be all that was brought?
I yearn for more, and yet I fear
A
Turn of the next page, the next year
Instead I write in margins of passed pages, lost
Between a forefinger and thumb, a turn, held
"Please, let me drive," a demand, less a plea
Captive, a passenger in my own skin
The side views and rear windows, foggy, blocked
Only starry headlights, white, and red, ahead
"Get out of the car."
"This one's mine."
I put a bullet in my own head for their trouble
Then drove an old car straight north off a bridge
"They didn't fucking pay me enough."
