My Friends. My Enemies. My Medicines.

The enemy
Is a tablet.
A little white circle,
Divided by a crease,
In case I want a taste,
And to save some for later.

It's small,
And it smells like poison.
Not something you'd want
To have coursing through
Your system
Your blood
Your brain.

Blood doesn't smell like that.

Brainwaves don't smell like that.

Sanity? I don't know if it smells like that.
I've never tasted sanity,
Let alone smelled it.
But if it smells like that,
So chemical,
So fresh, clean,
Yet, lethal?

Then why would I want to be sane?

The enemy
Is a fine white powder
Rolled into a capsule,
Coated with gluey plastic,
A green dividing middle.

This enemy, though.
This enemy cannot be split.
I cannot divvy up my time with it.
It is a selfish little bastard,
Who will not let me control it.
It wants me now,
All of it, all of me.
Now.
And I cannot say no,
For the doctor tells me so.

And these enemies?
I know their goals.
At least, their supposed goals.
To help,
Not to hurt.

They block out the demons.
They poison the water supply,
Which is already poisoned,
But this poison is allowed,
Because I don't create it.

The poison I make is what's lethal,
According to the doctors.
It's what's going to kill me.

But this?

This foreign substance?

It's not the enemy.

It's the friend.

It's the friend whose shoulder,
I'm supposed to lean on.
Disregard that it smells like venom,
That it's made of chemicals,
Plastics,
Waste.

It should be trusted.
Babies can't consume it.
Neither can animals.
Most people, really, shouldn't.
It's just for me.
My friend.

And the friend of a thousand other crazies.

So why trust it?

Because I'm supposed to.
It kills me.
It turns me into a zombie.

But it keeps me,
From killing me.

And that's why I keep my enemies closer.