OFF MY MEDS AGAIN

TITLE: “OFF MY MEDS AGAIN”

Hi kids, do you like… bad decisions?

Good. Grab a chair.

Cold Verse back like the therapist’s worst nightmare.

I’m off my meds again, writing with a broken pen,

Laughing while the walls close in, call that “focus then.”

Brain on ten, mouth on “send it, we don’t know this man,”

Whole life lookin’ like a prank I never told a friend.

I woke up mad at the world and a toaster,

Argued with a mirror, lost, asked it for a poster.

My conscience called HR, said, “He’s not safe,”

They put me on hold while I rearranged space.

Doctor said, “Count to ten when you’re stressed.”

Cool—

I hit eleven, now the office look possessed.

She said, “Maybe breathe.” I said, “Maybe write less threats.”

She said, “That’s concerning.” I said, “That’s a new flex.”

I’m the kid your mom warned you about in subtitles,

Running with scissors through a room full of Bibles.

Turn self-care day into a crime scene lightly,

Therapist texted “typing…” then blocked me politely.

I treat trauma like content, press “record,” then vent,

Turn breakdowns into bars, call that “paying the rent.”

If common sense had legs, it would’ve left last spring,

My last two brain cells share one swing.

I’m off my meds again, writing with a broken pen,

Laughing while the walls close in, call that “focus then.”

Brain on ten, mouth on “send it, we don’t know this man,”

Whole life lookin’ like a prank I never told a friend.

My guardian angel quit, said “update your resume,”

Left a note: “It’s not you, it’s… everything you say.”

Devil on my shoulder got a clipboard now,

Like, “Let’s see how fast we can shut this down.”

Ex hit my phone like, “I miss who you were.”

I said, “Same, he gone,” then I sent her this verse.

Boss said, “You late again.” I said, “You right,”

He said, “You’ll get fired.” I said, “Put that in the mic.”

I’m a red flag carnival, welcome to the ride,

Ticket price: pride, no refunds if you cry.

Brain like a group chat nobody can leave,

All caps, bad takes, weird memes, no sleep.

I don’t beef, I marinate it, slow-cook doubt,

Serve it with a grin while I burn out clout.

If life’s a movie, I’m the scene they tried to cut,

But the editor sneezed and kept me in—good luck.

If I make you uncomfortable… good.

That means the volume’s working.

I’m off my meds again, writing with a broken pen,

Laughing while the walls close in, call that “focus then.”

Brain on ten, mouth on “send it, we don’t know this man,”

Whole life lookin’ like a prank I never told a friend.

This was brought to you by:

bad timing, worse ideas, and

Cold Verse.

Now go tell your therapist about me.