Hassan Iftikhar Poetry

What kind of magic does these do?
These things, oblong and blue
I line them up on the floor
My little army of powder-blue poisons

They do not promise a trip
In large quantities, they make you sick
I push them back into their white tubular room
So that I have no urge to employ them

I find their company comforting
They give me much to do
I put aside some for Mother and Father, too
They will wish I'd never found them

And when they find me
I will be pale and numb in my room
No one warned me of the madness that would ensue
And now my blue, blue veins are filled with their residue

Poet: Tiffany Hall