I'm kind of wishing I was dead,
As I count up the solid thump of stupid rocks inside my head.
The Thump that comes in things I can't express with hot water,
The shuddering struggles of
Things hot floods that boil,
That one triumphant Thump of wishing our fingers weighed like hostile lead,
So that they would poison me and some might find it a dread.
But it's one random triumphant thump, that could luckily land me dead.