CB (1946 / Tennessee)

Pills

Some think there's an antidote
to all of life's ills.
At the end of the day,
a hand full of pills
erases the mind
from all its tomorrows;
a sweet release
from all today's sorrows.

A manufactured cure
from which glory streams,
a life being lived through
pharmaceutical dreams.
Days and weeks soon
turn into years;
a mind is lost in the haze
and glaze of empty tears.

A veil of confusion that
turns into self-doubt,
consumes the soul
that is left without
any love, any pride,
any hope or self-worth
as it languishes
and dies
from the antidote.

by Carolyn Brunelle

Comments (1)

Another superb poem! A manufactured cure from which glory streams, a life being lived through pharmaceutical dreams. AWESOME piece of that 2nd last stanza!