This poem explores a lot of confused feelings due to a decrease in medication.
|Less medication. The doctor cut
Deep into my dosages when he
Halved them. Not all of them, but
Wanted not to hand some of them to me.
I was about half goofy
For some mysterious reason
That neither knew was loopy
Nor was, for me, in any season.
So now I have sexual urges,
Physical needs that are new
And they come in surges.
I need to know what to do.
It has been so long since I was active,
I no longer know what to do with this.
Arousal, orgasm, that need to be attractive...
How much of this have I missed?
I have been ill for 12 years -
A dozen years of being drugged
Not out of my mind, but to tears
And all I did was shrug.
I look at myself now in the mirror,
Asking, "Who the hell am I?"
I know I am not that queer,
But I also know the complex reason why.
I hate that question: "Medical history?"
Yes, I have one. Isn't that enough?
"Sir, we need you to clear up this mystery."
Or what? You put me in cuffs?
I feel like a prisoner of my own life,
And the medicine is the only thing
That allows me relief from all this strife,
The only sanity in my frayed string.
"But why are you so stressed?"
I have my reasons, trust me, okay.
I was in the War, what a mess -
Yes, the War that still rages even today.
They are sending more troops in
To the Persian Gulf, that beautiful place,
But when I was lean and thin,
That War was terrible, over power, what a case.
Oil is the evil within the land there,
Where no one can escape the hypnotic fumes.
Open pools on fire, black smoke to spare
With nothing but money in mind - we are doomed.