Once upon a time
there was a young adult
who spent time on the dark web,
Searching for the most obscure and exotic substances humanity could offer.

Late nights tracking down vendors with the most up-to-date wares:
Drugs.
Research chemicals,
Novel psychoactive substances.
Illicit pharmaceuticals and exotic materials.
Pills, powder, liquid, tabs, any material one could find.
Uppers, downers, dissos, deliriants,
Psyches, anti-psyches, stimulants,
Depressants, anti-depressants,
*** drugs, study drugs,
'noids, 'roids, and
even vitamins.

There was the standard battery of illegal narcotics,
******* knockoffs of more popular drugs,
Drugs designed to evade anti-doping tests
and then the more experimental stuff.

Suffice to say this part of the internet is a strange and lawless world.
Not like the Wild West, more like the backstreets of Seoul.

The goal was nothing more than knowledge
of this rapidly evolving-world.

One night a vendor's listing flagged their attention
and on an intuition they acquired
a batch of synthetic cannabinoids for nothing.
A few days later a letter arrived
containing several unlabeled bags of power.

It took many months to even partially identify them.
The vendor went dark before the results came in.

One compound was entirely novel. It did not have a name
so it was assigned one. It did not have a history of human use
but had entered the wild human populace.

After identification they were destroyed.
The properties of that novel compound remain unknown.

Perhaps I wondered too much

in the past
and now I must
let my mind be silent.

Or perhaps it is that series of events

which molded my mind.
What I grasped from experience
is dulled in comparison to what's past.

I wish that by chance I would come across some new

experience as vivid as the past.
Though we only remember what strikes us,
I wonder why these days I often wait outside striking range.

The words we use say much about the order of things
and about our desired position in life.

They say I'm an innocent boy and perhaps
I am among the more experienced criminals.
I thought myself well-versed in the
dark-arts. There's always more to learn.
Last night I witnessed the proclivity of cathinones
to induce compulsive redosing when smoked.
My initial assessment of pentylone was off the mark
and that scene from last night stuck in my mind,
Seeing research chemical smoked off tin foil.
I did not discover this fiendishness, but
I bore witness to it, and it hammered home
how out of touch I am with a world I once lived.
I wonder if I felt the wrong sort of compassion,
But is it ever wrong to feel compassion?
Why did I feel cognitive dissonance?
Have I changed so much?
Who is it that feels these things?
So many questions. I'd quiet my mind.

These thoughts reflect much about the order of things
and my as yet undetermined position in life.

My heart twinges
and my ears roar
with the afterthought
of my actions
in the world. I haven't

believed my story matters
for some time.
There were days when I'd listen
to Buckie High by BoC
so frequently.

I lived through
that tune for some time.

Longing to connect through that
sweet nectar, the comfort of Buckfast;
The heft of a bottle that felt right
in my hand, an extension

of my body
and its beliefs.

There's too much of this city in me,
Too many memories, and
too many faces
that don't remember me.
Someone wanted my body, and it
made me remember how much I wanted to die.
It made me ask who would ever put their heart
in the hands of this bearded villain.
The struggle to be human
killed my ambition.

I smoked ***** with friends last night
'cause I can't relax, need
a reason to session
after attenuating those drives.

Dark as it seems, this
functional human being
continue to search for signs
of life.  Is it the good fight, or

is it the lengthy flight?

Practice forgetting.

There are some things
which should be forgotten.

The poems we write are being
consigned to the internet's depth
where the data does not express the

semantic intent. As for this poem penned
by the user Mydriasis [real name unknown],
This too will go, it'll pass on, fade out; because
everything is an echo.