Finally a Solution

A little bottle of pills.

That’s what I need to fix me.

4 of those bad boys a day and I’m good to go.

A translucent orange cylinder containing all of the happiness I could ever want trapped in 90 tiny blue pellets.

With the aid of a daily dose of psychotropics I can finally feel like myself again.

The good me.

The happy me.

I certainly smiled a lot more when I was younger.

I don’t remember standing on the edge of a 7-floor parking before I was at least 20.

I barely scratched myself before 18.

I certainly didn’t regularly cry myself to sleep before Junior year of high school.

I definitely wasn’t sad for days on end before I hit puberty.

I don’t think any of my best friends told me I was going to rot in Hell before 5th grade.

 

I mean, I haven’t always been like this.

This isn’t me.

 

 

Maybe I could wait to feel like myself again.

Just for a day or two.

A week at most.

 

But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it?

With only 4 capsules a day, I can turn into the person scientists say I should be.

 

It’s a frightening thing.

Then again, I don’t really like how I’ve been running things.

So I could give it a shot.

See if I like the new me.

It’s gotta be better than this.

Or that.

Right?

 

 

 

Bottoms up.

 

 

 

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4n08kv/the_skies_were_lying/d40a5zx https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4mdo9t/and_the_night_is_enormous/d40alfn