Insane

Banging my head against a wall,
and my foot against the floor,
I push my back against the door.

White walls,
white floor,
white ceiling,
white bloody door.

I would rather paint them red with my own blood
than stare at them all day long.
Padding or straight-jacket, might as well be.
Bored stiff, procrastination at it's best.
I think my pimples are all popped
and my hair undone.
Carpel-tunnel syndrome is kicking in.
I am sick of this room,
I am sick of these words
and I am sick of it all.
What moron paints everything
in a room white anyway?
I'd take black instead,
at least I could imagine a color then.
Forget it.
I'm going to bed.