dear amphetamines

Now, I am organized
into neat categories.
I become more productive, 
more myself—if self means
what I can produce,
how I move through the world.

Now, 
I only cry when a situation deserves my tears,
my mind is clear, and my paycheck
lasts more than two days.

I am filtered, now,
through you: adderall, vyvanse, 
prescription meth.

But in this filing,
storing, cleaning,
you forgot to tell me what box 
you put my poetry in.

Or maybe, perhaps,
you took it away for good.
Which is bullshit.
I am a poet,
or was one for a long time.
I miss having something to say.

I don’t talk much now.
You’ve sorted the hyperactivity
and the impulses and
the rotted out parts of me.

But you took my poetry away
and I would like it back, please.
No one warned me of this
particular side effect and I would like 
to not have to try to wrench and struggle to
figure out who I am again.

Maybe each poem existed
in a place where my attention lapsed,
created through the labile emotions,
the sleepless nights,
the anger and the sounds and the joy.

Or is it that every pharmaceutical I take
creates a different version of me?
You’ve filtered me. And because
I like holding a job down,
I won’t quit you.

But I would like my poetry back.
Pretty please.