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?