My story writes itself in spurts of hyper-detailed exposition dumps

followed by slumps in couches.
Jibber jabber spills out of LCD screens
like…
sewage slop, like
baby drool,
like vomit clumps;
my breath pools
and clots; I forget to breathe at times.
The ink dries up; the iron nib rusts,
I use water to lubricate it.

18 years of a life too well lived.
Air too fresh, hands too smooth.
This vehicle lacks suspense,
shunning all the bumpy roads,
and yet it slumbers, sputters,
lumbers, lacking drive.
This is a massive waste of time;
a slow cruise with no “where” in mind,
No purpose, no intrinsic desire, no use.

My eyes subscribe to dim-lit views,
barely bother to see the avenues.
They get narrower. Not like I care,
My spiritual vehicle barely there.
What’s left is stone. My path is steel,
Straight ahead. My feet on the wheel.

I tie my hands together in boredom.
My pen spells out a flatline.