Lady Gaga Does Not Cure My Insomnia.

Hello there random pill,
How did you slip out?
I took you and your brothers in my purse
Out on the drink
With achy aches and pains
Burbling away in my stomach.

I guess the packet was kinda shit.
I did get you on the cheap
From a magical place called Superdrug
For Reading Festival, last year.

And now you hold mantle
On my gloriously dirty keyboard
Beside F6.
Oh, what a lovely place to be!

It’s 8am and sleep was abandoned long ago.
Because it’s not working.
And now I sit with the curtains open
And in my dressing gown, glare at the sky.
This is fucking shit, pill.

Cough cough.
Did I catch the lurgy off that girl I snogged?
Maybe. Well – I hope not.
Cos that would be pretty gay.

Lady Gaga won’t help me out.
What a whore, right?
Perhaps I should try some more wine.
No, no wait - that won’t help me.
Because I was drunk and now I’m sober.
Oh well, I guess there’ll be no hangover in the afternoon.

So, little pill - what should I do?
Stalk to corridor in tights?
Knaw my arm off?
Lick my elbow?
Fuck this, I’m bored.
Good morning, little pill!