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Not saying I'm mad
Just saying that I've had
Enough of the *******
You continue to rule ****
Feeding on my young soul
Make off with self control

And where is my brother?!
The fact that I can't speak to my mother
I'm so afraid she'll discover
All this time I never actually... Recovered

But all feelings aside
Or what's left of them, subdivide
My once constant retaliations, are now merely implied
Moreover, You kidnapped my soul and continue to preside.
This poem reflects an addiction I have struggled with since I was 14.
Lizzy Apr 2015
Pill one was bad,
It made me sick.
Didn't work too well.
The zombie i became,
Drove some away.
It made the monsters multiply.
I spent my days in bed,
Too tired to move.
But lighting would strike my lips,
If I dare stop.

The next was heaven,
God lived in that pill.
Still on number one though,
It only added to my war.
See, number two had other uses.
I could take three and feel like flying.
I could crush it into dust,
And smell it's sweet high.
Pill number two got me really ******* high.

The crash from number two,
Pushed me to number three.
Withdrawal made me twitch,
Sent electricity through my veins.
Number three replaced two.
Still on one,
I hoped it would be the change.
It only made me fear for my life.
It killed my love,
Left me to die.

Doctor number two,
Please fix number one's mess.
He ****** me up bad.
But you listen to me.
You don't just write down symptoms,
And give me drugs when you tell me to leave.
Doctor two knows more about me than I do.

Take away number one,
She gave me number four.
I was a homicidal maniac.
My anger took over,
And violence seemed so lovely.
After some time this was all gone.
It did nothing to save me,
Didn't even try.
Doctor, this doesn't do ****.
It's left me drowning again.

Take away three.
Number four and five,
Now that's a combination.
Pill five stole my sleep,
And all desire to eat.
Food looked disgusting,
My heart beat quickened.
I couldn't stand still.
Now on four and five at the same time,
And starving,
I lost fifteen pounds.

Now add six.
Four, five, and six.
All at the same time.
What's happening to my body?
I've become a science project.
I felt all the chemicals in me.
Might as well have been poison,
Because six did nothing.
Like number four,
It didn't even try.

Take away four,
Give me number seven.
Now we have seven, five, and six.
It's too early to tell,
How seven will **** me up.
I don't feel human anymore,
Just chemicals with feet.
Seven, please save me.
Why do you think you’re so weird all the time?  it’s nothing more than insecurity
not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to
you know that flaley
spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey
which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re
there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re
creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much

stop getting my ******* in a bunch
you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls
i like writing: i like
and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******* like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble
this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam
and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham
in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay
but only until the vyvanse wears off and
your **** jar is empty
and your cigarettes have been smoked
and all your klonopin has been digested
and your bank account is empty
and the only thing left to take out your self pity on
is this poetry


i like writing words like cigarettes
and rhyming them with causal **** like
regrets
i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place
i regret smoking all those cigarettes
*but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one

— The End —