Torn Paper, Red Ink

All the pens, all the paper, and all the string in the world; and I willingly refuse to connect the dots. Leave me some silly putty, or maybe some clay. I'll make the world over again, rather than leaving it to whimsy and your damned straight lines.

The red ink you stain my calculatons with fill me with urges to rip paper

and burn pencils. Look at this fire, all heat, all the time, burning

away any notions that this was meant to last.

I am taking my easel home; painting your figure is too rough a task

for these delicate hands, and I have better pass times than to study your form.