Hollow

I awake with stuttered breath, from a dream far too real.
Sweat beading my brow, and my heart racing like I have just run a marathon.
I have died yet again.
Rather from another’s hand or my own, I know not.
I dream of death far too often these days.
Theirs and mine.
The taking and loosing of it all wrapped  in some endless tangle that boggles the mind.
I walk to my kitchen and grab a glass of water, hoping to wash the fowl taste of terror from my tongue, silently contemplating this morbid sickness that has beset me these last few years.
What have I become, when the fantasies of violence and self destruction are what both excite me and calm me.
When my dreams are more akin to nightmare.
I’ve become so twisted in my insanity that it is now starting to feel normal.
But what is normal anyway?
I down that last of my glass, and glance over my large collection of knives, swords, guns, and other weaponry.
Yea, i’m definitely crazy, like an recovering alcoholic working in a bar.
Sighing, I head back to my room, oh, what new horrors await me this time.