I take the blue one when I wake,
to keep the dawn from feeling fake.
Then the white one right at noon,
to dull the ache that comes too soon.
The green one tastes like TV snow,
makes the world seem less of a show.
I wash it down with silent tea,
and wait for calm that mimics me.
By dusk it’s orange, warm and thick,
to mute the clocks that used to tick.
I don’t remember why I cried,
but something’s grieving deep inside.
Five pills a day keeps me this way–
not too sharp and not too gray.
Not too loud, not too clear,
just far enough to disappear.
The last one’s red, it slows my dreams,
and stains my sleep in quiet screams.
I lay like stone, I breathe like math,
drifting down a medicated path.
They say I’m better, I nod and smile,
but nothing’s moved in quite a while.
I feel no rage, I feel no thrill–
just the slow applause of another pill.
I don’t know who I was before,
but I know now I’m nothing more
than five small pills and soft decay.
And this is how they’ll keep me–
this way.