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.
