Medicated Souls

We are the medicated souls,

too much morphine,

too much pain,

to take away.

 

We are the medicated souls.

No one can stand to hear our screams

even when they say to not be silent.

 

To them silence is violence

and screams not for queens and kings.

 

Take the pills,

drink 'till you forget,

smoke 'till you burn your life away,

smile,

it's your best medicine.

Because they shove parts of who they want us to be down our throats.

To us it's poison.

To them, medicine for illnesses we supposedly have.

 

Never do they realize the "medicine" they give us

makes us sick.

We are the medicated souls.

 

Sicker,

and sicker do we get.

We are practically crumbling in front of them.

 

No one sees, no one thinks.

Because it's not what they wish to see.

 

We hold each others stone cold hands.

Too much morphine,

we can't feel each others hands.

And so we forget we're not alone,

think no one can possibly understand our torment.

 

We are the medicated souls.

Dying our life goal, to escape the voices and endless wars that rage within us.

An audience to watch us burn, 

drown,

beaten down,

further we go.

 

Close to overdosed. 

Because no one wants to accept a flawed person.

 

I'm one of the crumbling.

And I don't want to be a medicated soul.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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