Poor man's Cocaine

That harmless pill the nice man prescribed.
Stopped the wiggling and squirming and static inside.
Relief, such release to finally rest.
Trust the doctors always know best.
Before I knew it I was bouncing and ran,
back to the worlds most compassionate man.
With kind eyes and so many degrees on the wall.
He promised more is more, and I believed it all.

He was right, so right, too right I found.
And before I knew it I was bound.
The twitching began a little at first,
but soon I felt as though I would burst.
I contorted, twisted, jerked, and moved.
Again, again, against all self reprove.
In endless repetition this agony repeat,
Til exhaustion won and I admitted defeat.
Then the nice doc said these meds are too much.
Less is now more, and you wont miss this crutch.
I trusted, I listened, wish I'd known all along,
That he could be so terribly wrong.

Now breaths catch, and insides crawl,
Shaking hands reach for sanity, but fall.
There is no reprieve, something awoke deep inside.
It screams, it thrashes, it begs, and chides.
It pleads for something, anything to escape.
The burn and the sadness and the raging it creates.
To upheave this communist enthronement,
God, give me rest for one damned moment!
The man who knew it all, accused and blamed.
Abandoned, left me helpless, hopeless, ashamed.

Now pill bottles whisper, sweet promises of peace.
Of rest and repose, of a good night's sleep.
Spedometers taunt, traffic lights mock,
Razors beckon, as friend and family gawk.
Back alleys welcome, and I, under this dominance.
Forget to care for health or consequence.
Desperate for a rush synthetic or grown,
I'm tempted by every path unknown...