Peace

I feel a pulsing roar within my ears
That urges me, go onward and destroy.
I try to block it out, but it adheres
To every surface in my mind. I toy
With giving in to it, and breaking things
Ripping to shreds whatever suits my will;
And when I think of that, destruction sings
Inside my soul, and I cannot be still.
The beauty of the uncreative urge -
That wish to shatter what others have wrought -
Is what will make of me a thanaturge
Desiring to reduce all things to naught.
If I could but find silence, then perhaps
I might be better - but the noise entraps.