I, like many, write better at night. Somber lighting on my heart makes it ache its most beautiful words. I've always enjoyed nights more than mornings, not that I am or was a partier, I always enjoyed them even alone.
But there's something disturbing my nights a creep inside my head, creeping. A powerful beast, a honored fow. Medication. Medication rules my life, it makes me feel, or more accurately it doesn't. It makes me sleep, and I hate it. I hate sleeping. I hate sleeping and I feel like pills are society's way of keeping me under control.
I hate them yet I need them so. Like a lover needs their lover, I need them. I could've died without them, I may not die thanks to them, but how is my poetry affected? How is the poet's word affected, their mouth closed shut, their throat focused in swallowing, not singing.
I long for a day without pills, without clouded thoughts, a day of clear poetry. I fear that day shall not come, for I'm broken on the inside, and my poetry is destined to be restrained.