Egg shells in my omelet.

I'm beginning to think
this air I'm breathing
is stale and tainted
with the noise of
yesterday.
My lungs expand to
take in the elements
named on a table
without any legs,
exhaling the letters
that got misplaced in
the process.
My blood flows an
unnatural color of 'Life',
one Crayola would scoff at,
pretend it didn't cause nightmares
the next morning.
My muscles burn like
alcohol hitting my open heart
and I'm only grateful
because I finally feel something.
All this trouble makes me wonder
if this life was worth this
feeling of death.