Drops

Drops

 

Sitting naked in the tub,

An endless supply of drops fall,

Bombarding my cranium with their nuggets of madness.

The room, silent and dark,

The shades, closed so tight

That light itself whittles down into black,

One might argue that this was death's sarcophogus,

And that I was its prisoner du jour.

A thicker liquid, a substance that tastes like a penny,

Rolled down my face and into the murky depths of the water,

Then spreading out, making it look like I was an artist

Cleaning up after painting a beautiful picture.

The gash hurts... oh yes, 

But not nearly as bad as the silent laughter

Being emitted from the shower head.

Still, the drops fall,

Making that peculiar high-pitched "plop" sound.

It's reminding me that I've spent 

The better part of two decades in this war zone dying.

I hear echoes through the war, begging the question

Of whether I recall the pantomimes 

Mommy used to place on the walls

When I was a wee little tot.

Oh, but I do. Only too well. 

For after I redecorated my face,

The masks are my only recourse for conveying emotions,

What emotions there may be.

I am what you want me to be.

I am the end-result of the water drops which corrupt.

I am the depths of despair of the razor blade you handed me.

I am the living embodiment of a world

Where Hope died and Hell thrived.

I am the carved gash on the face of a human mold,

What you, though hands-free, have sought to manipulate.

I am the blood of that gash that flows like a river,

But most of all, I am the darkness of night that you created.

Now, hear me roar whilst you whimper in despair.