An Unpleasant Way To Die

Outside, the pouring rain is continually slewing from the leaden skies
But inside these windows my faux smile is slipping, as is my disguise
As it pours and pours I'm sure I can hear every raindrop, pitter-patter
Above your monotonous (and maybe suicide inducing) chitter-chatter

If I was mad (or skull fucked) I would say that it's a case of cabin fever
As in my mind's eye, I can see the bespoke ghosts of the non-believer
For what is real is in here (I tap a temple) and not out there in the rain
And if I was mad I'd fucking kill you, but I'm not; or did I mean insane?

But this low pressure's oppressive and I can sense its presence stalking
In the torturous resonating background noise of all your fucking talking
Is that rumbling thunder, or just the echoing words that you once spoke?
Or have you said too much, for my arms are aching, as I hold the choke

I can't hear you above the deluge, but I can sense you, in my fucking ire
But it's all inside here, for I can see it's in my hands, this garrotting wire
I pulled it so tight I nearly cut off your fucking head, it was nearly shorn
But at least it's quiet now and I can rest my mind and ride out the storm

It's an unpleasant way to die, but fear not, for the unreality is I live alone
Except for all those whispering cunts, in my head, for whom I can't atone
So I'll listen to the pouring rain and try to drown out their chitter-chatter
But if it all gets too much (again) on the nearest wall, my skull I'll shatter