the unfortunate side effects of getting well.

Zoloft has killed my poems and my erections.
the unfortunate side effects of getting well. 
my pen won't mark this paper,
and my penis hangs it's head in disappointment.
they look me in the face and ask 'why?'
I try to tell them,
about the constant discomfort,
the urge to peel off my skin and escape,
how my mind fixates on misery.
they seem to understand as well as a ball point pen and a flacid penis could.
their tiny voices squeak
'we want you to be happy'
and I think they mean it
the three of us wonder if the writing will get easier.
the three of us wonder what the point of happiness is without a working cock. 
the three of us wonder if we are useless without each other.