And I can control my feelings better now.
The shakes are still there of course-
General anxiety is another problem to deal with,
But, since it's winter,
I can pass it off as just being cold
When the small child holds my hand
And asks me "why are you doing that?"
The drugs are working,
And I can feel myself getting calmer by the day.
The things that bother me don't so much anymore,
And the medication flows through my bloodstream
And into my brain, slowly changing it's
Chemical make-up, and helping me become
A better person.
The drugs are working,
And this is my first attempt at a poem in months.
There's no rhyme or structure anymore,
And it's lacking a certain something that you're used to-
The metre is non-existent, and everything has
Descended into free verse.
The drugs are working,
And I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing or not-
Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is the case that I have simply forgot
The unbearable pain from which my poetry was born,
But still I miss it- those ups and downs which made me... me
And now, as I stare blindly at some old withered tree
I forget what poetry lies within, and only feel forlorn.
The drugs are working,
The old feelings have gone away
And, with them, a part of my soul,
Which could not stay another day,
In this unpoetic hole.
But the drugs are working...
“People use drugs, legal and illegal, because their lives are intolerably painful or dull. They hate their work and find no rest in their leisure. They are estranged from their families and their neighbors. It should tell us something that in healthy societies drug use is celebrative, convivial, and occasional, whereas among us it is lonely, shameful, and addictive. We need drugs, apparently, because we have lost each other.”
― Wendell Berry
