The Wrong Kind of Medicine

Poetry, Writing

It’s the wrong kind of medicine
Misdiagnosed prescription
The pills swallowed whole
Floating in the toilet bowl
The taste reminds me of regrets
Anxiety induced tongue twister
They said I should despise myself
And be afraid of everything
Become a rotten wooden raft
In the middle of nowhere, shaking
I wear the mask of self-fulfilling prophecy
When the storm hits, I allow it
Thanks to my useless education
Hollow advice from cold hearts
I am part of the cause for this tempest
It’s the wrong kind of medicine
Labels injected deep into skin
Slowly turning into a part of me
I am the church of self hatred
Practice my holy beliefs and hate me
Drink from the goblet of expectations
I have many tears to waste
It’s easy for a walking disgrace
That’s what they said in my head
Those voices are always correct
If I was a painting I would be dripping in red
Thoughts like mine always bleed-
The self destructive taste
Cannibalistic way of living
I pray in my own altar in front of the mirror
And break like glass, silently shattering
It’s the wrong kind of medicine
To think of yourself as a burden
Clinging to the victim status
Has never treated anyone

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Specimen

Poetry

Between two walls
She is framed inside a cedar box
Like a rare insect specimen
Nailed on the edge of the hardboard
Under glass enclosure
For their close inspection
Are her eyes bright enough?
Is the head still intact?
Why is she positioned like a broken orchid?
Never right enough, never good enough
Constantly observed
Tired of having dried up wings
Disintegrated legs made of wooden sticks
Forcing more made up smiles, a trapped fly
Self-destroying parasite
Over-thinking, self-analyzing
Unnecessary introspection turns the faucet on
She chokes on salt-water, if nobody’s watching
When it’s appropriate