We are the pills-as-candy
kids. The screwed up,
bad-line-from-a-bad-song
generation. We prescribe ourselves
Prozac, Zoloft, Aterol, anything.
We become our own rock 'n roll nurses,
shooting up drugs into our scalps,
only this time, Johnny, it's not
heroin. No side effects like that;
more subtle, more addictive, more cool.
We flaunt our pills. We wave them
in the air like banners, like the scars
on our arms, flaunting our self-
mutilation. Blood pouring down our
cheeks, darling, believe me I know
what it feels like; you're not alone.
Saying things like that is pointless.
It only feels like it's not a lie.
Drugs for enter
I hate love poems.
I am sick to death with,
"How soft are his lips",
"The curve of her hips",
I don't want to hear about these fallacies you build up in your head,
And write in your little black book to show your friends,
Pretending you're some great poet.
The world is filled with billions of topics, and yet,
Nine times out of ten,
Amateurs, with their books of words
And rhyming dictionaries,
Chose to write about an emotion, a fear of loneliness.
"Her golden hair",
"His chocolate stare",
I can't take it anymore.
One at a time, you march onto stage, and squint in the glaring spotlight
As you smile at the faceless, dark audience