Echo

thoughts batter into my brain like a steam train without brakes
and I'm sick of disappointing the people who think I have the answers.
My head is as barren as the cold stare of the stars,
weaving endless, pointless narratives on salt-water paper.
I build puzzles out of voices reaching octaves above my own
I'll sink into some entrenched smile/laugh/wave/answer.
Writing this is hollow. Sounds echo in my empty head like drops of water in a cave.
Stalagtites and stalagmites and stagnation is all I have to give
because I get stuck in this cycle of depression
and I'm tired of bowing to a master who doesn't care if I die or not.
But I am my own master.
I'll bow to the mirror with a one finger salute
and take
my pills
in silence.