Medicate.

Borderline in an almost oneiric fashion of
Sleepwalking in an invisible, yet hissing fire;
This personification of a hellish realm of 
Compulsions to the unknown.

So I use this hourglass to count away
Obsessive invalidation as a victim
Of a lonely depressive.

As lonely as I, maybe?
But also as fake as a narcissistic smile
In the shape of a crescent moon.

"Hello, La Luna,"
Whispered I in grave disintegration. 
"Your lullaby has failed again just like
The pills that fall from your eyes
In streams of liquid silver."

Manic fades with artificial thoughts
Of glass silhouettes that cinder out to
Make a vast pile of ashes an arsonist could never produce.

It was the sun putting an end to my paralysis,
But was I still just a marionette pulled by unseen chains?
I'm still in a nightmare marked by demons non-existent
That even lithium can't cure.
But what is that to the bottle laughing next to me?