Exit 123

It's the taste in my mouth when I'm comatose,

the smell of the carpet when I'm coming to.

It's biting a busted lip, a deviant's aim, it's forcing pain,

It's filling the cave where there is usually nothing.

Usually nothing is better than being awake;

it makes me think of my own interchange,

the pieces of me that are misfiring,

Silence til I'm driving and I can't see straight.

This migraine, I feel machinery shake,

a breakneck pace to a brake,

and I've reached the exit, I'm at the exit.

It's so quiet so I shut up, but when I talk

it's like not even I can hear me.