Bottom of the Prescription Bottle, a poem by Drem

Thanks genetics. My whole life revolves around when to take which pills at what time and in what specific amounts. I live in chronic pain from a chronic incurable illness, which leads me to my darker work like this poem called Bottom of the Prescription Bottle. I’m fortunate to live in a time when I can get my pain managed and live a semi-normal life. Nonetheless, I’m trapped in this body of mine and it gets really bothersome. It gets frustrating. I dream of declaring my independence from my pills, the same pills that keep me kinda functioning. It’s a love/hate relationship, I suppose. And one most people don’t understand unless one has lived it.


This is a poem I wrote in the beginning of November. I wrote it around 5AM and recorded it soon after, sleep deprived and a mess. I can’t remember what inspired it. I remember wanting to start including color, which is where “The only thing gray are her eyes…” comes from. The intro is from now, and the poem speaking part is from a 5AM in early November when my hair wasn’t blue.


Bottom of the Prescription Bottle, a poem by Drem

November 2, 2015

“She loved so much

it hurts

when she’s alone

drowning in her bed

absent of sheets or dreams

to cradle her tired body with

at 3AM.

The pills she takes

scrape against

the insides of her throat

and she coughs

as water fills her eyes

and falls with her

down deeper

into desperation for relief.

But nothing makes it better.

Memories still take over

her whole body

and flatlined self-esteem,

and her mind is consumed all by them.

Nothing present matters,

though there’s nothing here


that’s pleasant…

just drugs and a bed.

She’s not missing much to look at now.

She doesn’t even look like herself.

The only things gray

are her eyes.

Those would be of more use

to someone who has something beautiful

to see.

The only things gray

are her eyes

because they’re long drained.

It’s one of the only things left (she has)

and she can’t even give the useless things away.

She knows no one to ask

to take.

She knows no one at all,

not even herself,

 only her memories

that visit her at 3AM

and dissipates

with the pills she takes.

She numbs her mind with them

and coats her mouth with them


causing damage

for now they make her insides bleed

and blood drips like spit

down her chin

with her bile and the rest

of her stomach lining

that burns

as she shivers

in her cold and sweaty

overdosing skin.

We count time by holidays for her now.

It’s mom’s birthday.

We’ll see if she makes it to Christmas Eve.”

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6 thoughts on “Bottom of the Prescription Bottle, a poem by Drem

  1. Gray is spelled GREY for the color. You might want to edit that. I love the rawness of this poem. As one poet to another, expressing our pain with words, is truly healing. Jx


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