“the feeling of realizing that the rush from monster energy grows weaker the more frequently it is consumed”

First sip, a neon river through my veins,  
An emerald jolt, a roar in morning's hush,  
Green lightning hissed alive inside my brain,  
I soared atop the high-octane rush.

How trilling was the buzz, the pulse, the zing—  
Each swallow promised wings, a myth reborn!  
The can cracked open, fizzed with wild spring,  
Its thunder chased away both fog and yawn.

But winter dulls the fever of July,  
Bright monsters summoned daily slouch and yawn—  
That thunder once electric starts to die;  
The sparkle fades, the wakefulness is gone.

I chase the phantom surge I knew before—  
A shadow dance behind each silver claw—  
Yet every sip feels lesser than the core;  
Each morning finds me ruled by weaker law.

The magic spends itself on hunger bright,  
Impatience dulls the potion to routine.  
In search of fire, I drink away the light,  
And sip by sip, forget what "rush" could mean.

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