An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.
Fresh scrapes across his knuckles
And violent, violet bruises on his knees—
Just another average morning
For this angry young man.
Stumble from the futon
Amongst the battle ground of empty cans,
Searching for lost left over liquid—
The only remedy he’s ever known
What some people call a disease,
He calls it the cure,
But there’s nothing there—
No more money, no other options—this is it.
Sipping on a cup of reality—
The bitter taste of defeat.
Tired of being tired
And sick of being sick.
Earthquake in his stomach,
A tectonic disturbance.
Heartburn made from magma,
A pyroclastic flow.
Dry heaves and convulsions
Above a porcelain *******.
He knows he needs to stop,
But no one likes a quitter.
— The End —