The Nihilist in Number 4

I stare at the wall

Counting down time as morning birds sing.

If I could catch them, they'd sing songs no more.

Silent, as my soul, inside my roaring brain, 

words ignite the pain. 

I fight depression.. with sirens in the distance..

through clear and present danger, all I can think is:

"Life, is a fucking emergency. . ."

The birds shriek sonnets 'til the morning sun

and as I reminisce,

that maddening noise climbs ever higher

deafening the hums of planes.

Blasting out the sounds of cars on the highway.

I yawn, while gripping the chair. 

Peeling paint with my eyelids.

Sitting in a circle of flame

trying to inhale the black smoke of my dream.

With eyes watered—I wait for the roof to cave in.

Imagining beams breaking my neck; screaming:

"Take me. Take me! Take me now! FOR-FUCKS-SAKE!"

The noise migrates like geese,

and like geese, this noise is a bastard.

And in my mental maelstrom, I inhale the vapor.

Exhale, while scratching my head

In a little dark room 

with light casting from a small window.

And everytime I gaze at that sill,

I am bombarded by sound.

How many more breaths must I take

before my heart gives in?

Can this plane just crash into this fucking ground?

This birds song of peace, is a chirp for warfare. . .