*** He wakes up in a cabinet mind Pill bottles lined like a picket fence spine Serotonin sunsets, dopamine rain Everything buffered, nothing too plain Doctors wrote him into a blur Edges sanded down to a slur He don’t rage, he don’t weep Just drifts through days like chemical sleep But pour him a glass and the fogline breaks Truth cuts clean like a switchblade wake No filter left, no padded lie Just a straight-shot voice and a level eye He only gets honest when the whiskey hits When the molecules slip and the mask don’t fit All day he’s managed, all night he’s numb But drunk he’s precise like a loaded gun Say what he means, mean what he says No second-guess loops inside his head He’s right when he’s right, no need to defend But only when drowning in a brown glass friend Morning comes with a cotton mouth creed Back to the script that he don’t quite read Compliance carved in a pharmacy chart Stability stitched over a splintered heart They call it balance, he calls it slow Like thinking through layers of frozen snow Every opinion pre-approved and bland Like someone else steering his hand But night brings a fracture the meds can’t hold A crack in the system, raw and cold Where truth don’t taper or gently bend It lands like a verdict you can’t suspend He only gets honest when the whiskey hits When the molecules slip and the mask don’t fit All day he’s managed, all night he’s numb But drunk he’s precise like a loaded gun Say what he means, mean what he says No second-guess loops inside his head He’s right when he’s right, no need to pretend But only when drowning in a brown glass friend Is it clarity or just collapse? A moment of truth in a neural relapse Is he healed, or chemically staged? Is the real him quiet—or pharmaceutically caged? So he toasts to the blur, to the brief clean line To the rare sharp edge in a dulled-out mind Where wrong is wrong and right stands tall For a fleeting hour—he can feel it all Then back to the bottles, the labeled control A regulated ghost in a managed soul ***
