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Joe Woodhead Jun 2015
My entire life I've had an interest in substances,
Psychedelics mainly.. and all it encompasses,
The idea of letting loose from this world,
and witnessing something truly absurd,
but my opinions on substances aren't always preferred.

I have always been a man of science,
A sceptic in every sense of the bias,
but there's a substances in the world called DMT.
Dimethyltryptamine to the science community,
It appears in every tested plant, mammal and tree,
and It's effects are a total MYSTERY,
I could spend hours trying to explain what it's like,
Like taking a tour of the another universe on the back of a bike,
Been guided through an uncomprehendable place,
With a character and culture of what seems like another race,
The standard laws of physics don't apply,
A tingling sensation, and off you go,
Leaving your ego to die.
coming out of it you laugh,
you cry,
totally lost for words,
again, “What's it like?” people ask,
but explaining it is an impossible task...

“Druggies” they say,
Tarring me with their cliché.
Judging me on this factor exclusively,
Foolishly, thinking that's what matters,
An image of a man with his life in tatters,
but delve a little deeper and hopefully that illusion shatters.

I'm just a stereotypical geek,
I love sci­fi, fantasy and Jonathan Creek,
Spend my week days programming and drinking tea,
moaning at how ******* footballers treat the referee,
or wondering if I should have gone back for my masters degree,

How can you have an opinion on something, you've never done?
A world in which you've never come,
and what initially seems scary,
can be enlightening or fun,
but it's natural to be scared of what could become.

This isn't me saying, I think everyone should take drugs,
They're DEFINITELY not for everyone.
But do you think you should be allowed to judge?
How I spend my own time, with my own body?

There's a common phrase “Drugs are bad”,
As if an inanimate object has a moral compass,
and can know the difference between unlawfulness and justice,
Chemicals have no objective opinion,
No way to tell their right or reason.

Go to the pharmacy, “Paracetamol please”
no one ever questions this need,
People portray this drug as accepted,
while others are shunned and rejected,
this judgement isn't made with logic,
and the papers will slander with no justification,
“YOUNG GIRL LOOSES LIFE!” the headlines shout,
those words in your face like a covonia clout,
no one cares about the coroner report,
All they see is a picture on the front page,
Of a poor girls mum distraught,

These are portrayed as the rule as opposed to the exception,
a perfect example of media deception,
then again we all know it's been that way since it's inception.

We all know drugs can have negative effects on lives,
I've experienced first hand the darker sides,
such as my friend Dave who tragically died,
an amazing person I'll never again be alongside.

****** abuse can be a ******* awful thing,
a cardinal sin,
it can change people....
make them a different person in the same skin

With no idea what it contains,
It is injected directly into their veins,
*** and Hepatitis C,
Collapsed Veins and crutches plain to see,
That's not how anyone should have to be.

But is it the substances which are to blame?
Is it helped by the way society, publicly shame,
People who have had lives I couldn't even BEGIN to explain.
Needing something to take away the pain.
but ending up with zero gain
and although it's not always the same
People often don't like what they became.

The aim of this poem isn't to force my view,
It's to hopefully make you see I'm not much different from you,
and to not shun what you don't understand, but listen with open ears, and potentially lend a hand.
A Mareship May 2014
It is the day after the funeral and my sister is with me. I’m drinking Covonia straight out of the bottle.
       “I wish you’d come home with me.” She says. “You don’t want to be hanging around here.”
I wonder to myself how I’m doing this. I haven’t gone upstairs yet. I’m too tired to be mad, too tired to be suicidal, too confused. I breathe out, swallowing hard, my head jumbled, and I say:

       “In another universe I suppose this hasn’t happened.”

A post-it note on the kitchen memo board reads: WHAT IS TIME?

— The End —