Every night I’m taken to a room,
where the darkest thoughts seem to consume
In this room there is a mahogany chair,
and a rope at which I can only stare,
lying on the floor are miscellaneous things,
I look outside and only the vultures sing.
A requiem for all the things I know
just like trees mourn seeds that don’t grow.
I grab the rope and sit on the chair,
twisting it in my hands like a strand of hair.
Nevermore has a rope looked so inviting,
or thoughts of death been so exciting.
And like a snake it started to wind,
as i thought about the friends I’d leave behind.
Wake up, Wake up.
I shift and struggle in my bed,
as this dream wants to leave me dead.
in this room I drink myself into a haze.
and in my stupor a revolver holds my gaze.
I sit and load the bullets one by one,
Silent until the patient work is done.
Sitting in the room, I think for a while.
Looking down the barrel makes me smile.
Eyes shifting to the trigger about to be pressed,
caused a quickening inside my chest.
The message jumped from the brain to the finger,
thoughts of the outside seemed to linger…
WAKE UP, WAKE UP.
