Tune of Madness
Meaning instilled in ordinary things;
The distorted portrait on the wall,
Anticipation when the microwave rings,
Tensed instict 'moment the pen falls.
Like childhood, these objects,
I feel watching in their presence.
Such is fate for a madwoman defect,
Making friends with rats in the vents.
I don’t wish to leave anymore.
Their ears follow me everywhere.
The silence is eerie, but the sounds.
The sounds, the sounds, the sounds
Those who endure them everyday are less sound than I.
The microwave stopped beeping just now.
Why is the silence so loud?
The food. No. No. It’ll be warm.
So unsymmetrical to my skin.
Skin too cold with hats and socks worn.
All of it’s... no way to win.
Air conditioning’s a’humming.
No focus to drown it out.
Steady buzz. Head pounding 'n drumming.
The sounds. That’s where it starts, the doubt.
The sounds the sounds the sounds
