Where is it that you find your wonder? 'neath the rainclouds with pitchfork collecting lightning, in thunder? ******* is king, Ecstasy queen. Phet is my thing with morning caffeine. Six days and five nights, the things that I've seen. The rabbits and spiders in the *** noodle canteen.
Where is it that you find your wonder? 'neath the sun with secateurs collecting the fruits of agriculture. Health is king, love is queen. In this new life, sober this spring.
precision to envision what i need my wants are very difficult to place ritalin though helps me but i can’t imagine the continuation of what feels like a sin wording is everything i’ve only tried it ten times ******* pornographic depictions of your ******* fixations fuel my motivation for more to give you and i the world and continue to love you my little ***** i shouldn’t say these things but the nasty ways we profess our love are the most raw and beautiful displays of human nature
Lights haven’t looked like this Since I was in my teens Messing around with my hood rat friends *** and amphetamines
I took a handful of Blue Dolphins That were thirteen bucks a pop If we bought ‘em in bulk, I guess As we did more often than not
Or maybe a few of the triple stacks Red something-or-others, I think They didn’t work on me this time around ‘Cause I threw ‘em up in the sink
Now I am in my thirties And my scripts **** with my brain I know I am speeding my ***** off But at least I feel like old times again
Drugs are bad, m’kay? The best explanation for what they do is that drugs aren’t “bad,” they’re awesome. They’re so awesome that they become all you want to do, and you’ll then do anything to obtain them. You’ll sell your belongings, your body, everything, because you want to feel good again. It isn’t the drugs themselves; it’s what they do to you and make you do for them.
Twenty years in the fast lane, speeding was ecstacy at the time. Sweet heady bubbles of coke, buzzing at feeding. No softeners added, lemon or lime. My therapy, my medication.
******, my mind on a long vacation. Knowing this time would one day arrive. My restless legs, my tired insides. My not so central nervous system, twitching fingers, flickering eyes. This to me is no surprise. My therapy, now my reprise.
Have you been sleeping in my bed Have you been sleeping in my bed because I found the traces of your skin the traces of your skin Have you been sleeping in my head because I found the traces of your thoughts trailing through my skull with a warrant for my sanity crushing my soul with a warrant for my sanity on a one man police force trying to stop me from breaking through your skin and injecting myself an IV of pain and amphetamine muscle relaxers and a single tiny white pill to break through your thoughts and find my place to settle down and sleep.
This might be more song than poem. I don't know. It seems like its been forever since she left. It hasn't even been two weeks.
I'm trembling, but who's to blame: the dealer or the drug? And, at this point, what's the difference? I like the way the dealer warms me up, but I like the way the drug cools me down. I like the way they both make me crazy, but I love how they keep me sane. I love the way they whisper everything, but at night, they scream my name. I like the way the drug kisses my insides, and the dealer covers my skin. I love the way the drug feels like a virtue, and the dealer is nothing more than a sin. I like the way this addiction is going, but I hate it all the same. I wouldn't mind the dealer, if he wasn't the same place from which the drug came.