PHARMACY IN MY HEAD

TITLE: “PHARMACY IN MY HEAD”

Hi kids, do you like… not remembering last night?

Yeah, me neither. Let’s talk about it anyway.

I got a pharmacy in my head, no refills left,

Every pill that I met wanna steal my breath.

Every line, every tab, every sip, every hit,

Promised “escape,” then it chained me to this.

I met pills at a party, they said, “Sit, we’ll talk,”

Whispered, “You don’t gotta feel if you don’t wanna walk.”

I said, “Cool, just once,” they said, “Bet, just twice,”

Next thing, I’m counting days like scratches in tile.

Bottle on the dresser like a toxic best friend,

Quarter gone by morning, rest gone by ten.

Doctor said “take one,” I said “math is a myth,”

Now I’m swallowing decisions I can’t live with.

I tried weed ‘cause the world made my nerves all static,

Thought it’d be “chill,” turned my brain cinematic.

Now every thought’s a jump cut, panic in a scene,

Staring at the fridge light like it’s God on a screen.

Then liquor showed up like, “Bro, I got you for cheap,

You don’t need therapy, you just need to not think.”

Next day my liver sending emails in caps,

Like “stop cc’ing me on your emotional collapse.”

I got a pharmacy in my head, no refills left,

Every pill that I met wanna steal my breath.

Every line, every tab, every sip, every hit,

Promised “escape,” then it chained me to this.

Coke slid in like, “You sad? I got energy, fam,”

Big talk, small bag, big crash, same scam.

Heart doing double time, jaw won’t quit,

I’m cleaning the whole house, still feel like—this.

I’m cracking jokes while I’m cracking my teeth,

Nose running marathons, brain can’t sleep.

You ever stare at the sun ‘til your vision turn snow?

That’s my soul scrolling through “what ifs” too close.

And I’m not bragging, I’m embarrassed this is lore,

I wrote half these bars on a bathroom floor.

If addiction had merch, I’d be on the shirt,

Little warning label: “Will joke through the hurt.”

Woke up one day, whole body on strike,

Hands shake, chest tight, thoughts like knives.

Looked in the mirror like, “Bro, who signed this lease?

When did ‘trying to cope’ turn to ‘dying in pieces’?”

So now I’m writing instead of running to the shelf,

Same demons, but the weapon different—pen, not self.

If I ever sound like I’m glorifying that trip,

Just know half of these rhymes come from hating that grip.

I got a pharmacy in my head, no refills left,

Every pill that I met wanna steal my breath.

Every line, every tab, every sip, every hit,

Promised “escape,” then it chained me to this.

If you heard this and thought “that sounds fun,”

rewind the part where I’m begging my own heart not to quit.

Cold Verse.

Close the cabinet.