Pills

A thick and heavy fog has
settled densely in my head,
clouding every sense
and pinning me in bed.

Lights burn, soft sounds roar
vision skewed in wobbly haze.
Remaining judgment piss poor;
I'm stumbling through the days.

Cold sweat, out of breath,
staring at the ceiling -
pondering a death
devoid of more feeling.

Neurochemistry on its ass,
my guts churn in protest.
Sanity frail as dainty glass,
a cold pressure on my chest.

Pills, pills, how long will it take
to adjust so I feel awake?

Pills, pills, will they even work
to clear away the incessant murk?