The Opioid Crisis

The Opioid Crisis

In a town of shuttered storefronts and porches gone to rot,
The pills arrived like missionaries preaching what the doctors bought.
They sold us comfort in a bottle, relief in 30-day supply,
Then watched us stumble past the dosage into a slow goodbye.

Hands that used to build and fix now shake for something small and white,
Hearts that used to hold a family crack apart at night.
The clinic’s waiting room is standing room, the graveyard’s running low,
And the pharmaceutical executives still count the overflow.

Nobody starts this journey wanting to end up on the floor,
Nobody’s first prescription comes with a warning on the door
That says: this pill will eat your name, your pride, your kids, your home,
And leave you begging strangers for a fix beneath a styrofoam dome.