The sky's gray like paper maiche

Or oatmeal bland

Or dare I say

Vomit

Fresh

Warm 

Moist

Exhuding a wet dog stench

Nauseating

Causing me to reflect

To hear voices in my head

Not threatening are they

But vulgar in what they say

The leitmotif in their groans and sighs

"Despise yourself"

They cry

Yet not in a loud way

Like the bang of thunder

Or the shrieking of a livid mother

But, rather softly

Gently

Like a siren's song

Lulling me

To drown deep

In despair.