Waiting Tom famously said
T'was the piano, not him
But there's no piano in my head
It's the voices that are drunk again
Echolalia behind my eyelids
I listen, because I have to
A locked room with two windows
And of the three people in it
I can't stand two of them
One is brave and brash and bold
'Fuck you,' it says in slurring fury
Sometimes it shouts, beating drums
'I fuckin' hate you'
But it's the drums in my ears
No one else's
'You can't do a single thing right'
Some days I say back
'I know'
That other cretin is quiet
It doesn't beat drums
It doesn't shout
It only whispers
'What's the point?'
Offering a timid shrug
'Can't feel anything anyway
We'd be better off dead'
A notion I've entertained
The last noise in my head
Is that of my own voice
At night, like Northern Lights
It is sometimes exposed
Forced to wake from slumber
To pull itself from the mire
And say, firm, resolute
'They may dwell here
But this is our house'
When he speaks, they do not
They're wise to the order of things
And while one hates my guts
And the other wants the void beyond
They're smart enough to know
If the house catches fire
If it burns to the ground
The doors are locked
They'd have to burn too
Such peace that a lit match can bring
AJ Carney 