i hate to dull you with drugs.
to deaden your vibrant colours is to
desecrate a sacred temple to the prophets of madness.
the lead prophet beats a drum in my temples,
calls me to him with elaborate poetry
that spills from my head through my
veins to my fingers -
my elegy to you will never be allowed
to be said aloud.

serotonin
hurts
my
head
and
inextricably
more
so
my
heart­.

drugs can't help me.
they never have.
creativity is king.
medicine is usurper.
i will have to fight it
off.