One pill, a day, doesn't quell voices-
and two pills doesn't help me make choices;
Though it does make it clearer which of the whispers are real.
Three pills, I found, were rather effective-
At both clearing the head and instilling some directive;
I just wasn't able to give up the power to feel.
Another pill, the tapes, the therapy-
Meant to manage the anxiety;
Every time that work beckons or I glance at a call.
Then the stupid, and useless, breathing techniques-
For the insurmountable tension that peaks;
That freezes me right in my tracks in an unwanted stall.
And yet, worst is, the pain-
That manifests in my shoulders but is all from my brain;
I've yet to find a pill, a patch, or poison that could even make a dent.
Going in, to dismay, and always so late-
cursing myself for making them wait;
Rushing in to disappoint them all again tonight,
Ignoring, snoozing, silencing pleas-
That emanate from my core filling me with unease;
Reminding me that till I change my path I will never feel alright.
Driving away, wishing, of a life instead-
Where I'm up with the dawn and climbing out of my bed;
Waking up from the dreams where I dared to make a start.
Growing, taking, the crops in the field-
Restoring arable land and its power to yield;
My heart and soul poured in the earth, sowing to ready the fields, sewing the tears in my heart.