Cut!

My eyes are half closed
It's not that I'm sleepy
But I am tired
... tired of taking it in,
of absorbing all your shock:
the horror,
the 'rationality'
My senses of the skin?
Full... oversaturated!
You zap my energy
and give nothing back
There's no more room at my Inn
for your antichrist babe:
the narrative that stirs,
that cries crocodile tears
You echo the voices of victims
But the hollowness of your clanging
well...
its haunting has lost its novelty
It no longer entertains
It's just draining draining 
And so I choose
to block it out and breathe
I sit in the presence of my Self
I'm still listening
But my attention moves
far beyond your masked performances
My heart has found a new frequency
I am listening to the sounds backstage
the things that matter,
things that inform your chaos
in ways you don't relise
Because behind your robotic drama
lies a script editor who has fucked up
And so I return to the original script
And slowly the play becomes meaningful,
as I rehearse it in my head
and discover the correct story line
And merge with my perfect role;
one that defies your casting