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Condensed, Bite-sized tablets,
Made to alter the entire feeling,
Of ones body and mind.
Mother relied on them,
Father refused them,
And my curiosity,
Of feeling something different,
Is yet to be restrained.
Brothers never needed them,
Brothers rarely asked for them,
Unless feeling a little,
Under the weather.
But my friends.
My friends are stupid ones.
My friends are ridiculous ones,
My friends are the ones,
You tell yourself you’ll never be surrounded by,
When your about 12 years old.
See it is my friends who are responsible,
For the altering of my own opinions.
My friends knock the head off my shoulders,
Tell me to buck up and live.
“You won’t die, you idiot.”
It’s said to reassure me.
“My mom took 68 Zoloft and still survived.”
Now here’s where it gets difficult.
When I know she isn’t lying,
And the subject is still as delicate.
As a blossoming flower,
In the path of a May Storm.
She swallows a good five.
I hold two under my tongue,
Until I’m caught red-mouthed,
And forced to take another drink.
Forced to take another pill.
Forced to come to the realization,
That there never was any force.
Rather just a reckless moron,
Scared to lose another best friend.
“Live with no regrets”
“You know how fast eight weeks goes by?”