This creative space is

stifling –

you’ve got all this room to

trickle water out into the void

but the ocean stretches out forever

and you’re fucking about with the sink.

It’s sending paper airplanes with

poems written on them off clifftops

hoping someone’ll snatch them up,

except you’re the one person on the planet,

and you should really be trying

to punch holes in the goddamn atomosphere.