Little yellow bottle sitting on the windowsill,
asking if I’m ready for my little white pill.
Will it be just one today, or two or three?
If I had a say in things it’d already be empty.
Yet I try to be good in spite of the pain,
Not worry about what’s coursing through my withered veins
that can barely rise to the occasion
When it comes time to get filled up again.
“It’s the best option we have” they say,
while I grin and utter “I’m okay”.
It’s my only option,
So I guess I’ll keep walking this way.