The Orange Bottle

You sit there and tempt me

Every night when I’m empty

You are supposed to be helpful

Unless I take you by the handful


One each morning by the mouth

Is supposed to stop my feelings from going south

But somehow they get there anyways

To a place that’s cold and dark and gray.


Sometimes at night I wonder if there even is a light

If maybe this is it, and I should just give up the fight.

One each morning is what the doctor said

But why do I spend every night crying in bed?


Sometimes I lie there, hopeless, and full of sorrow

thinking that I could take them all, and just swallow.

And sometimes that seems like the only way

Because these thoughts just never go away



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