The Little Black Book of Poems: Drug of Choice

A blue circular pill,

Created from a scientific formula,

Designed to take away the pain,

But in all reality,

It’s killing me.

Its therapeutic toxins are annihilating thee.

I’m burning;

Headed straight to hell.

I keep lighting this perpetual match,

As its flame ignites,

I go up in smoke;

Up, up and away,

Except I go down,

Down beneath the soil—

Like I said, straight to hell.


How can one tiny chemical combustion actually combust me?

A once whole girl is broken.

I tell myself no,

But I really mean yes.

I try to believe,

But how can I believe in anything when all I want to do is leave?

How can one word bring me down?

How did I lose my crown?

I just want the thoughts to stop.


I want them to fade away.

And so I say;


The road I was headed too.

The path they are all still on.


As I look into the rear-view mirror,

Vivid imagery comes spiraling back.

Like that itch, you can’t scratch.

Like the nightmare, you can’t seem to wake up from,

Like the dream, you want to fall back into but reality won’t let you.

It’s almost laughable (in a way),

Because whenever I did get what I wanted,

I always wanted more.

It’s like all I wanted was a taste,

But there’s no such thing as enough,

The glass is bottomless,

And I still want more.


Why can’t I be satisfied with what I have?


It was always more drugs, more pills, more everything.

Today, it comes in flashes.

As I gaze out the window,

The weeping willows sway back and forth;

Just as my mind whenever I think of my past.

Except, it’s history.

Sweet misery.

Then, I look up.

I see that the skies are blue.


What a color.

And so I mutter,


You were also my drug of choice.

Back then, blues gave me my voice;

Except that was a lie, which is why I had to say goodbye.

So I move my eyes,

From the skies—

To the trees, as I watch them sway gently beside the breeze,

And once again, my mind goes back.

Panic attack.

I see filth.

I recall dirty mattresses laying on the floor.

You couldn’t even walk to the door.

Cigarette ash infested the flood of smoked butts,

It was nuts.

Food wrappers were scattered underneath the carpet and the couch.

One word, ouch.

It felt like dead bugs covered the entire room.



What was I doing here?

This was the lifestyle I longed for?

At what point do you say enough is enough?

That’s the problem though.

Things always seem better from afar.

The grass is always greener when you’re in the car,

Except, I was only seeing black and white.

I couldn’t fight.

The good was out of sight.

Maybe because I was a prisoner of my own making;

I was a servant and I’m shaking.

A slave to these fucking pills—

I still have the chills.

Where they were, is where I needed to be.

I can’t help but think, why me?


But since he had them,

I wanted him.

I needed him.

I had to have them.

The ironic thing was; he wanted me too.


Take your pick,

You fucking prick.


He told me I could stay.

I thought things were finally going my way.


Except, he lied.

I cried.

It was raining.

I was cold.


I recall,

Feeling very small—

I walked two damn miles with a garbage bag,

That was me waving the white flag.


On one side,

I had the “boy of my dreams,”

The other,

The reason my life was falling apart at the seams.

On the outside, it looked like I didn’t care.

On the inside, I was really scared.

In short, I used to hush the chaos in my head.

Like I said,

I was addicted, restricted, and fucking conflicted.


Why was I so stuck on stupid?

Blinded by prescription pills,

I wouldn’t have recognized the light if it punched me in the face.

What a fucking disgrace.

But the truth is,

That’s not me anymore.

Today, I roar.


Today, I write a different story.

Because I found some fucking glory.

I am not what I have done,

I am who I have become.

And I love the girl I am today

Because now, I have the power to say,

“This is not how my story will end.”

Here’s to a new day and the weekend.



macey bee

4 thoughts on “The Little Black Book of Poems: Drug of Choice

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