Morning brings the medicine bottle,
Sour syrup, shaken not stirred,
Delivered on a pristine white plastic spoon,
Prescription remedy for the mind,
Of a troubled sort,
More question marks, than full stops.
This brown glass bottle,
With childproof cap,
Saturated stick label,
Does not represent me,
As it controls me.
It pushes me into the arena,
With an angry bull,
It fools, there can be victory in life,
More to the point,
Life has a point and-
it is a point, that nobody can explain.