Take this pill my doctor says, it will make you feel alright,
Really? It’s that simple? Only a pill to end my plight?
He assures me it is so, and expert he must be,
Certificates on the wall, displayed that I may see.
Thus the pills I take, three times a day, that’s what I have to do,
He said that they will ease my pain and help me see it through,
Each day that was for me a pain, great suffering in the dark,
I cannot wait for this to end, and the striving to depart.
Next morning. Things are changed. I think,
Yes. Pain has gone. Numbness. I blink,
Darkness. Gone. I should be happy. Yes?
The world. It’s strange. I wonder – happiness?
No not a dream, something else? Another place and time?
I struggle to remember. My wife says I am fine.
She says the pills are working. She says I now behave,
So I must be good. But cannot think. This is a shallow grave.
Jack Wolfe Frost is the Eternal Rebel; he rebels against everything which may have the word “rules” or “behave” within it, whether explicit or implicit. Born in Sheffield, UK, in 1956; he first started writing in 1982, as a hobby--dreaming that perhaps one day he might try and publish something. In his working life, he has enjoyed success in many diverse areas, including running his own company twice. Now older and wiser, he has once again taken pen to paper--looking for conformity to smash and rules to break…