I remember shooting up in the alley between the old library and the church it wasn't poetic, it was a fix and nothing more.

I remember meeting Jesus and asking him why he was so full of ****?
Why cities burned and madmen killed?

He said it wasn't his problem.
The devil cried and was cast away for his tears.

The gun had become truth and the lies had become gospel.
The junkies became a test subject for the futures asylums residents.

I laid down feeling the cold of the street and the warmth of the fix.

I asked for a reason and the ******* gave none he just asked me to share what I could not control.

Why? is not a question for life
simply duck your head and follow
Follow to marriage, follow to war, follow to death.

**** without question and feed the lost vice.

I never spoke to him again but I never would be ever that person who shot up again either.

I didn't need pages to guide me.
As I write my own answers I ask no guidance from empty skies.

Maybe their anger will keep me warm.

But maybe it wasn't my problem to begin with.