A Pink Pill Poem by James McLain

I hate it, the fault of the world belongs to it.
What were they thinking, when they made it?
The subatomic world, slows, then stops.
Nucleus of my center, it's bottom never centered right, it's drive.
Chemicals, push and pull me as the tides, moonless eye.
The ride is vast, ferrous, filled with misgivings, one big rush.
I am being driven, the line is endless, little waiting faces, all blind.
Doesn'T she, understand, I can be a waiter, I am patient?
Blind Helpless, I am pushed out, discarded, never to feel as
she did, the day when as normal it all flowed away.