~When suicide's a metaphor, you know your life's a vibrant bore~

Quiet Moments

It's the quiet moments that wreck me
Sitting alone in dark rooms on cold nights
Curled under blankets that keep me going,
Keep my toes from going blue and falling off,
But never quite enough to kick the numbness,
Kick the chill the wracks me, attacks me.
It's the quiet moments, all alone,
That my mind begins to crawl.
It's the image of chewing barrels,
The gray metal cool on my tongue,
The soft scrape of tooth on cast iron.
It's a romantic picture, but not for the trigger.
The gun is loaded, the trigger never pulled.
I don't yearn for that death, nor does he yearn for me.
The romance of the revolver isn't in the death it brings,
But flirting so sensuously with oblivion,
Tasting annihilation as poignant as the steel.
It's the quiet moments that wreck me,
When revelation on my stagnation creeps through,
Seeping through my mind, the worst kind of shame
Knowing full well I can do so much more,
And yet not truly able to reach out and grasp it.
There is no bull I can't wrestle, no obstacle impenetrable,
But to take life by the horns requires in what I am deficient.
I simply don't have it, the urge, the passion, the drive.
Apathy an insidious thing, and so oft misunderstood.
I don't think I'm all that lazy, I just can't do what I could.
It's the quiet moments that wreck me.
It's the lonely night, the lonely days,
The lack of company and crowds to escape in.
Society can tell you to smile, and merrily does,
And in public that peer pressure is easy to succumb to.
But alone? That's when you have to be real with yourself.
Unhappy with your image, touch the glass and scream at yourself.
Another romantic image, one that doesn't work out so well.
I'm not much of a screamer, my shouts are rather feeble.
And frankly the mirror could give two shits less about my bluster.
For that matter, I could give two shits less about my bluster,
Because what does it really lead to? Resolution? Action?
How about D: None of the above. That's what I'd pick.
It's anger, it's a vent, and it may feel good, but ultimately there's no production.
It's an expression, but one wonders if Galliger was mad at the watermelon,
Or if he simply was crazy enough to smash it in the name of art.
The quiet moments wreck me,
Because I'm real with myself and my failings,
And I have to own up to all the wasted potential,
Knowing full well there's strength to muster,
But not the spark to muster it.