So

 I was standing next to the jars of pills, 

so close, so close 

to take just one box, okay not really; 

correction: four big boxes 

of two hundred pills each, the possibility of 

a long, long slumber. 

Oh, how I wish, 

like the others around me, 

I could do away with manners, or 

use my problems as an excuse 

for bad etiquettes. 

I abhor how they use practically anything 

as a reason to behave off 

with others. 

I was talking to a friend, 

but I envisioned him as something more. 

Then came shame and then came guilt, 

I wondered if, like she once said, I was a whore. 

I was writing a poem, 

and well, I forgot what I was writing about, 

so I wrote about my thoughts- 

And well, everybody judged; 

what was the point anyway?