Fuck you, Prozac

It sounds like fun, it sounds like raw delight.
It seems a happy land I haven’t seen.
I picture birds and trees half cased in white,
The other end enclosed in velvet green.
And you’ll say “twenty” proudly on your side,
Or “ten,” if solid, pressed in paler shade;
In which case I’ll need two to take a ride –
A sacrifice so easy, gladly made.
Some weeks will pass, and then this stuff I’ve drunk
Will start to make me wonder if the whole
Thing’s worth it, now equipped with new dysfunc-
tion, robbed of any touch, or heart, or soul.

That said; I’ll finish, quit, and fade to black.
But not before I say: Fuck you, Prozac.


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