A grim vision on prescription pills
A future you hope there's still time to avoid.
Because beneath all the cheery waving
And bubbling surface-level conversation
Lurks the same bad wound that won't heal if it's covered.

That itches

Just turns to stagnant mush
Sticking to the crusted pillow.
Yearning for fresh air
Aching for exposure, the sun and wind and rain and stars.
Desperate to impress, to repulse
To spread beyond the derelict tomb
To which this episode of history has been condemned to rot.

So become not the pitiful ****
Upon whom your judging eye scornfully rests,
And instead burst forth in a tidal wave
Of hot bile and vitriol
Dripping from the bloodied fingernails.

It will not be pretty
But then neither are you.