the nightmarish grey color
   eyes in the back of his head,
his last gasp a shutter
   you'll never forget,
when all you planned
   was for all you to get high
you and him and crystal,
    she is a good head girl,
and as he took his last breath,
    you found that last bit in his pocket hid it,
then called 911 cause Crystal was dialing 411, and
pounding his chest you screamed to him to breathe again.
As Crystal shoved paraphernalia under the couch.
The night the week the month ruined.
It all became a broken mirror,
Way more than seven years more bad luck.
More like a lifetime. And as you hit what he left you
the heard footsteps of doom creeping closer it lost
all the buzz.