Take Three Anvils for a Soulache

Sitting alone in the dark
With my little glass of poison,
Laughing madly at my own scary joke.

Turning up the volume
To drown out the grating sound
Of my eyeballs twitching in their sockets.

Waiting for the second hand
To disapprove just a little more,
But I'm beyond feeling guilty any more.

Putting on my earphones
To get closer to the music
Blaring at me from inside my ears.

Huddling on my ugly couch,
Maybe I can claim that I
Spent the year dead for tax purposes.

Turning up the volume
So I can't hear myself crying
Over shattered pieces of impossible dreams.

Popping a big pink pill
Out of a chewed-up PEZ dispenser
And washing it down with some truly foul poison.

Turning up the volume
So I can't hear myself scream
As the drummer pounds out the beat on my eardrums.

Turning up the volume
So I can't hear myself think
Over the bass sawing through the back of my skull.

Turning up the volume
So I can't feel myself hurt
Just the song echoing against the backs of my eyes.

Convulsing at the sudden silence
As the tape ends without a click,
Just a hard, sharp smack between the ears.

Seeing unfocussed swimming colors
Surrounded by fuzzy grey helium clouds,
Soft cotton stuffing squishing out of both ears.

Groping for more poison,
Because I'm not quite dead yet,
And please let me stay numb just a little longer.