"The Prozac Becomes Me"

A poem about depression and how medication has its grip on my reality.

Every day for a sip of water, my life becomes a ritual.
Although not habitual.
But for me, there's no difference between being elated or miserable.
More miserable than well.
Sometimes worse than Hell.
A lot times I just don't have emotion.
I feel like I'm not even here.
I smile at funerals for I can't produce tears.
I try and think positive and have no fear.....NEVER have fear.
My loved ones consider me a stranger when I laugh at danger,
But my mind is sound.... No need to load a chamber.
A blue and white pill,
Forty milligrams until I die.
It's my life and I accept it,
But man.....
Sometimes you get tired of asking why.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
And I'm tired.
But I'll never give up because this is a test I can pass.
Because when it comes down to manic depression, it can kiss my a$$.
Prozac


--Darken Graves