Anti-psychotic

I wasn't sure I should publish this, as the quality is dubious in my opinion.
I tend to find this sort of poem annoying from other people, so I'm not really expecting it to be liked. Just reflecting upon an interesting experience that I've had.

I'm floating on lava
cold lava, but it would sear me to cinder.
I can feel it beneath my thoughts,
Inside me like a vile sludge.

I feel it, but I don't think it.
My thoughts are truly clean
Empty.
The vile, icy-hot, lavarous sludge,
a river or a stream, flowing beneath thought.
Peaceful... perhaps.

I feel pain, but I can't think it.
I feel sick, but I don't know it.
I feel the lava burn me to my soul,
but I don't care.
My thoughts are pure and lifeless.

The Anti-psychotic was a yellow, dissoluble half-tablet.
It's how I got to sleep.