Buzzcut Silence

[fluorescent.43]

Final Edit.

There are no voices in my head.
Just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream.

Let's go on a rampage!
Cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down. (I'm screaming
now. Can you hear me?)

I'm running away from
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
-heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.

There are tall new-yorky cities
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily

Brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot- nothing left
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

My fingers are clutching angels,
stuffing fistfuls of halos into my ears
(I'm an atheist)

Pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily

[[again, i haven't changed much... i think this is where i want it to be, now. it was a big struggle to make this flow together and be coherent... anyways, i kept the 'new yorky' stanza because it meant a lot to me and i rather liked the childishness of a foolish dream. the ending two lines i also kept because... yup, you guessed it, i like the empty feeling you're left with. it was supposed to provide anything but closure, which is why i put a seemingly innocent word (drily) in the last line by itself (and i searched it up, 'drily' and 'dryly' are interchangeable). and i used capitals because i have finally come round to the idea. thanks all for the critique!]]

Edit.

there are no voices in my head.
just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream.

let's go on a rampage!
cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down.
(i'm screaming now.
can you hear me?)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
—heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.

there are tall new yorky cities
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot— nothing left
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

execute. execute.
execute.

my fingers are clutching angels
stuffing fistfuls into my ears
(i'm an atheist)

pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily

[[haven't changed much... i didn't want this to lose its intended freneticism. hopefully it's a bit clearer, but it wasn't my intention for this to become a straight-forward, to-the-point poem. still don't know if the title works, but i've got a better idea of what i want this whole thing to be.]]

Original.

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]