It's a
    Hit-after-hit
Spitting image of the gutter.

Needle sewn to the vein,
chained to the mind,
Finding God, only to
     Fall.

All these
Psychedelic-whatevers,
No use for names.

Just effects,
Just feelings.

My spine is snapping
And dripping
Out acid.

It is, an odd feeling
Of
Who am I?

Getting darker as the night does
(Yet)
It is not even midnight?

It is, realization.
That perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
I took
You took
Maybe one or two or ten
too many tablets.

Gorging yourself on your finger to
Save your life.

That inveterate thought of
"Please don't be too late"
Is when you know
I know
It's too far
Gone.