Walking around Miniature pharmacy, Too many pills to count, No one understands, No one can relate, To the type of life, The type of hate She has for herself.
This one every 12 hours, That one every eight, Six puffs of an inhaler, It's her body that she hates. Walking down the road, Her bag rattles from all the drugs, She pops some more here and there, Then it's nyquil that she chugs.
Why isn't she normal? Why does she have to do this? No one her age is worried About missing their next dose, But if she misses A single medication, She might as well Admit herself into a hospital Coma-tose.