I am half a Siamese twin, linked at the head,

I hear for two, although I speak for none,

silenced by my sibling’s tireless tongue

that witters through my brain incessantly.

I crave peace, release from otic riot,

a moment’s quiet to define myself

as more than just a mush of sonic slush,

mere dustbin of din.
 

My blood relation is a drama queen

who covets title roles and hogs the stage.

In love with her own voice, she drowns me out,

shouts her lines, anticipates her cues.

At night, for spite, she toys with Noises Off

  ̶   a ticking clock, a mocking tap that drips,

a whip that cracks, a claque that claps and roars,

“Encore! Encore! Bravo!”

Oh, how I’d love to lop off my left ear,

untangle jangling nerves that charge my brain;

drain out the dross! But Van Gogh tried that once

and still went raving mad, dying alone,

prone in an Auvers cornfield loud with crows

cawing his requiem; a manic mantra

drumming his demented head to dust,

and deafening silence.

updated by @americymru: 11/24/16 06:02:45PM