BOTTLE OF PILLS

Tears come from the bottle like some liquid rain, trying to erase everything but erasing nothing, for anything can not change if you continue to have it remain the exact opposite but the same. Yes, I am in a brief moment of my childhood adolescent adult madness.

My words are no longer making sense. The pain I feel is the only thing that has me feeling alive and natural, yet it does not make any sense this bottle, these pills, this goddamn romance with words that I had since a young age, now filled with light and happiness when there was a time when I was filled with darkness and rage.

This bottle pats me on my now broken back. While keeping my head spinning as I play with the monkey that has now fallen off, I want to ride the dragon's tail and spitfire. I want to be like the lion, the king of the jungle.

I am drinking my coffee black, with no sugar. Falling asleep in the dark black sea thinking of the bottle, the pills that they want me to be, I am once again being looked at as one of the mentally ill again. The bottle gives me coloring books and crayons to color with, not even felt tip markers, and the pills give me imaginary friends to play with because everyone else is gone, even myself.