I Make My Own

Doctors and underpass men
have the same greedy and wanting look in their eyes
ike the 3 card monty who recollects
where his queen and my dollars reside.
They preach the miracles
of the wondrous pills in shades
of cotton candy, blizzard, apricot
and unearthed secrets from the tombs
of Crayola's unbridled id,
feel good shots in the arm
(you know its working if sensibility is lost),
and unknown dust that tickle your nose.
The euphoric short term and the tragic long
are tempting for bliss and an awesome tumble from grace.

Rehab is still in progress from
everyday yearning of glittering untouchable girls
and fickle morals for villainy or heroism
against hollow faces and relapsing quivers.
I make my own sorrows
the lab can keep the artificial alternate
for bored bourgeois who need the thrill
of losing faith.