Pharmacokinetics of a Poet.

Ramipril, propranolol, flucloxacillin—

half-life measured in hours,

but my words? Indefinite.

Metabolism in the liver, excretion through the kidneys,

yet my thoughts cycle, never filtered out.

*

I know the pathways—

CYP450, first-pass metabolism,

lipophilic, hydrophilic, bound to albumin,

but tell me, where does poetry bind?

Is it bioavailable in the bloodstream?

Does it pass the blood-brain barrier,

or does it linger in the marrow of me?

*

Epinephrine spikes, tachycardia flutters,

beta-blockers to slow the rhythm,

but my pulse races for a stanza,

my neurons fire for a line.

I walk between two worlds—

one measured in milligrams,

the other in metaphors.

*

Dopamine floods the synapse—

a rush, a high, the craving to create.

Sertraline smooths the waves,

but poetry is the tremor that remains,

the side effect no one warns about,

the withdrawal no prescription can ease.

*

I chart drug interactions,

predict adverse effects,

yet who calculates the half-life of a dream

when reality demands compliance?

*

Enteric-coated emotions dissolve too late,

delayed release of everything I’ve buried—

but poetry needs no formulation.

It bursts apart on the tongue,

sublingual, immediate,

direct to the bloodstream of my being.

*

A fast release, yet a slow release,

quick to ignite, slow to fade.

No known antidote, no listed side effects,

but I know this—

poetry burns in me.

*

I balance doses and verses,

count pills and syllables,

split tablets, break stanzas—

knowing both can save lives,

knowing both can heal.

*

I dispense amoxicillin with one hand,

and with the other,

I write a prescription for my soul.

This is my calling!

Between these two worlds, I stand.

Within me, science and art collide.