"druggie" poems
i've never been
to any other
highschool
in my life.
therefore,
i cannot speak
for all schools.
but, i can speak
for my school.
about every other
student here is
a druggie.
which means
you have your choice
of two crowds.
but once you choose,
at the beginning
of your freshman year,
you can't change your mind.
and the teachers here
rarely teach.
they throw slideshows up
and blame you for not
paying attention
if you actually get
the nerve
to go up
and ask for help.
our principal
promotes
mental health,
but doesn't give any
resources for
mental breakdowns,
anxiety, or
depression.
sitting in classrooms
for eight hours,
with people you
can't stand,
with nowhere to go
will completely
destroy someone
especially someone
already
suffering.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
She would be dressed pretty in rags
slaving like there's no tomorrow
without that bit of altruism
maybe a tad kindhearted
shrouded in materialism.
Fairy godmother's name
is money
lures her
to a game of fame
keeps silent
of its rules.
Her beauty
makes her a winner
she would
be drunk
attention
glamour
pleasure.
Unknowingly
games drawn to an end
the clock strikes twelve;
Struck her
riches to rags
the magic of money
only lasts so long
Struck her
still had not find
her one true love
at the eleventh hour.
Sobered
ran out in embarrassment
left only a glass slipper.
Desolate
returning to rags
a druggie for fame
with much hope
a prince charming
would remember
her to find.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
**The allure of everything bad
The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad
The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... ******* crystal ****
All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death?
We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines
If only for a second
When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is'
'I am not a quitter'
You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon
The bartender to pour you a second
Social trend like a hot topic on twitter
So now you want more
You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for
In a sense you don't, for you choose not to
Addiction entraps... but who?
Not you
And the moment you decide to go cold turkey
It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie
Impossible to reject
Relapse... rubber band effect
Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious
One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved
He's furious
He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves
By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves
In an alternate reality
Where 'it's all good'
It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood'
A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces
Floating around in temporary elation
These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called 'X-rated generation'
The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad
Or it could very well be you or me
Seduced by the allure of everything bad
I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many...
For a judgement between bad and good
I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many
Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.**
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
bow tie and collars
nice pair of suspenders
buzzcut and braid
wanna get laid?
sex-tuned world
labels all swirled
high level of confusion
doubt and frustration
all the stigma about
sexuality gender who you are
we tell you where you fit
labels aplenty
let me name many
**** *** thot, *****
these and much much more
***** ***** and traitor
see you all later
******* druggie, and ****
nerd, geek, emo, goth
**** ****** loner
crackhead and stoner
athletic and pretty
simple or ****
labels aplenty
go on, take your pick
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
An ode to fast food,
Oh how I loathe you,
Your hot french fries,
And complaining customers,
That I wish to smack,
Their oh so very fat ***
The managers are ******
They need to be relocated to a mental hospital.
One is a furious druggie, with hair that is not so pretty,
And the other is a fat cat, who pretends to be a girl, when he clearly is not at all that,
Oh food that is fast, how thou will not last anymore in my life,
I bid adieu to you, and the burgers,
How'll not miss the times I've cried from working with some miserable *******
Goodbye for now,
The times were not fun,
How I'll never miss running off to work,
Because I have always hated you.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
ride or die
you keep me alive
giving me power and devotion
day after day
and honey, you're so dope
yet so elegant that
you may be compared to what
fills my eyes
and what hovers over the
unseen land of the deep blue sea
that we like to call
the bottom of the ocean
drizzling down my soul
to the dark gaps of my heart
darling, i see right through you
clear as day,
dark as night
you keep me here
yes, you keep me on my feet
supplying me with
love and emotion
like a druggie feeding it's body
the *******
it craves
~t.s.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
duality
portrays itself
in common things
to examine them
is much like
self examination
therein
lies
two sides of one item
the patient is in need
of morphine
to ease his pain
the injecting of the drug
brings relief and calm
to his ailing body
the druggie in ***** lane-way
shoots up with an unclean
needle
he's in a dire position
transmittable
disease
in his system
a time bomb is ticking
a commonly used instrument
such as a syringe
gives and insight
into duality
which
abides in one item
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
Drug free is the life I want to lead
Strong and healthy is the way I want to be
Never will I end up to be another druggie
I am above the influence
I don’t need drugs to have fun or to come undone
I don’t need toxins to fill my lungs
I don’t need drugs to fit in or to stay thin
I don’t need drugs to make my head spin
I am above the influence
Drug free is the path I want to take
Another morning I want to awake
Not live day by day making mistakes
I am above the influence
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
"Pass me a shroom, give me the **** hit up the ****** tap on the alcohol, and trip out on acid." That's what they all say in this world; that's how they get their high. But for you; I see it in your eyes Haley. You get a different high. No, you're not high on living life. You are high on trying to figure out how to life life. You hurt and I see that. You take away calories to increase your happiness. Some add more **** to there needle to increase their happiness. Whether you are taking or adding; you are hurting. What was your gateway? Was it the scale? The girl in the magazine sitting on the shelf? How about the "pretty, skinny girls" in bikinis at the beach? Like everything bad in life there is always a start to it. Some become a drug addict by smoking a cigarette; "oh, ill just do it once". Was it that way with you Haley? Just one less helping of the side that was for dinner, just one less snack, just one less meal. We always have false realizations for our self and it ***** we discover them in such a bad way. Did you enjoy the control that you could and can have over food? "They can't make me eat any more than i want do". Druggies like the lose of control too. They feel at ease with themselves in the moment and maybe the next few days; maybe you did too Haley. Druggies have close friends they smoke around, they don't dare let in newbies. I heard of your friend, Ana. She sounds like a scary person; yet you are aspiring to be her. Haley, you've got so much more to give and experience then these foul emotions. With all things in life there must be an end; this is your time to start a new chapter. Learn to live without your addicting. You can do it. 1 in ever 200 women have an eating disorder; 1 in every 300 are addicted to drugs. You can beat this.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
you. are it
you. are her
you are my bit of serendipity.
you are my pleasant surprise.
you are it. you make it ok. with you i can bare it. you make me ok.
my bit of serendipity, my fortunate happenstance.
you, you and only you.
call it what you will?
call me what you will?
an addict, a druggie, your druggie.
my bit of serendipity you are it.
my bit, my aftermath, my something.
yes you are something.
my different.
you. me. serendipitous. i see it. do you?
my something. my black and white. my grey at 3am, my fucken lucid dream.
you, mine? no? ok. you, me ? us ? no ? someday. my blue moon? my black and white? my grey my black and blue?
my bruise? i am bruised ? Its hidden? like you and i? yes? it is hidden. like my love for you? Unrequited. yes that's true. we're done? i'm done i'll be back someday.
and i will be.
Your bit of serendipity.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
I can tell that
you can't tell
that you aren't
going to be famous.
You helped **** a kid
by selling him laced candy
because you were trying
to buy an acting career.
Your suicide threats
and cries for help
turn me on.
Because.
I would love
for you to die.
And if you were dead --
as dead as the dirt on
the graves you've helped fill --
I wouldn't sleep better or worse;
I guess I would just be happy
knowing that someone would
be able to sleep and wake up.
They put you on the evening news
and you laughed about it on twitter.
Because you are a river
teaching drowning lessons
but not taking responsibility
for the cornflower blue corpses
that haunt your dangerous brain
and contaminate nearby life.
You are a degenerate --
but not one with potential
or hope. You are not what
is beautiful about struggle;
you are not interesting.
You are written about
much like how cancer
is written about in journals.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
Passed out on the couch. Ice cold.
Ice cold like the needle she used as a blindfold to the life she took no responsibility for.
Ice cold. Ice cold like the tombstones in the graveyard where she laid her boyfriend to sleep, left with a beautiful mistake she wanted to keep, but just like everything else besides drugs in her life, her baby didn’t fit her schedule. Forced to be put last on her to-do list, she “sheltered” her with lies and excuses that in reality were portrayed as bruises.
A personal punching bag to a worthless stab at a mother. Seeing your own flesh and blood as a barricade between you and your next fix, “I hate you” were words I was never afraid to admit. You left me, only seen as a nuisance to you. Forget about me as I can’t forget about you.
The final straw that broke the camel’s back. Was I too much to handle? I mean you handled your smack!
**** you” are the words that come to mind, when I think about you ninety-nine percent of the time.
If it’s possible to hate someone you barely know, well then that’s true because mom, mommy, ***** druggie, mother, I can honestly say I do.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
i feel so tired
there seems to be a lack of oxygen
have the demons all conspired
to make me their kin?
is it their whispers that sway my opinion?
i fight back the tears that my heart wants to release
i fight a battle of the mind, and all i want is peace
but it sickens me to think that i have this disease
so the medication seems to be working,
but the dosage is what they might have to increase
you don't know.
but thats quite alright.
it is mutual, and i don't think of you as my foe
please, i don't want to fight
i have the scars all over my body
that tell of past pain
and deep inside i know that i'm a druggie
use and abuse, just like any other ******
my heart feels as if it's sinking into an ocean
but inside i feel i have an inkling notion
that i have to fight this war
i have to survive through the bombs, and than even more
the swords pierce my flesh
i quickly wish that i was dead
but all of this, it's all just in my head
i keep going.
the words are continuously flowing.
and here i am, not even knowing--
what i am supposed to do next
when i feel as if i'm so terribly vexed
but to keep on keepin on is what is best
i don't even mind if i fail the test
we'll just have to find out whats left of the rest...
and i don't write these words for you to read
i write them because i feel the need
to let it out
before i turn into one of those demons;
to begin to scream and shout
for i do not want to hurt you
the way that i have been hurt
but even the most beautiful of flowers need the dirt
so i push my way up through the soil
all of the worlds gravity feels as if it's weighing me down
i am soon facing the hatred and turmoil
but i try not to frown
and i feel as if the smile is faux--
like the ones on a clown
painted up to decieve thee
all to make you think i am happy
and i am.
i am.
i am only human.
i am, and was born into sin.
i am no where near perfect.
i am an addict.
i am kirsten.
i am an enemy, but i want to be a friend.
i am bipolar.
i am living on the border.
i am faced with trials and tribulations.
i am prescribed numerous medications.
i am happy.
i am sad.
i am the words you are reading.
i am the smile thats so easily decieving.
i am the epitome of me;
does that have a meaning?
now the tug of war seems to be misleading
i am swaying from side to side
while others see my pain, i see them grieving.
but my emotions are what i try to hide.
i don't want to have to see them leaving;
i feel so alone inside.
i have a pain only i can feel,
and no, i do not want you to understand.
and no, i do not want you to walk in my shoes.
but won't you please take my hand?
help me forget all the past abuse...
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
I remember
When a the word relapse
had A meaning .
When I’d Explain what it
Meant so you can be aware.
Told you what tempts me
What are some triggers.
I Expected You to
View it as a 911 call.
To help me when I’d fall.
You never payed mind
To the importance of it.
Just like you Didn’t think
Telling you I had an addiction Was something that bad.
I remember when
You Made your own definitions
To all the words I’d tell you.
I’m the one struggling
But you always made yourself the victim when it was me who needed attention, apologize, comfort & to support me.
Temptation & triggers
Have no meaning.
You never cared to look after me.
It wasn’t something you’d have to be 24/7 about.
You never questioned your negative actions & how that’ll provoke me.
You never cared until
A Relapse
Meant I Used because
I wanted to get high.
Finally You show importance.
Not in the way where your concerned if I’m ok & hoping that hit didn’t cause harm.
Concerned to where you stood by my side & talked on why it happened & what can we do to prevent it again.
instead , a relapse means
Talking **** to me , making me feel bad , blaming me, making yourself feel like I betrayed you
Feeling so angry saying I don’t love you & love that more.
You abandon me & go m.i.a
When you were the cause of why i couldn’t handle feeling hurt etc
I remember when
Relapsing made me feel guilty & so bad because I failed you & disappointed you.
I remember When
I’d tell you I’ll never be honest on my sobriety , confess or hand over paraphinillia .
For me to do the opposite of what I swore I’ll never do.
All because it killed me to lie & hurt me to see you stress your mind on doubts if I’m clean or not.
All For what ?
For you To talk **** to me when I confess about relapsing, for you to call me drug addict & insult me calling me Druggie tweaker etc
When I’d Hand you things
Etc
Me Being honest to you & open with my recovery only
Damaged me more.
What I gained wasn’t support.
It was money being thrown at my face telling me to go get high.
Calling me drug addict in many insult full ways.
You made a joke out of
my struggles.
You’ve never been there for me.
How far the meaning & value of relapse once meant.
A relapse now means nothing to me when it comes to you.
Being true to you
Only back fired.
You use it as leverage
To insult me more & have negative things to reply.
“I wouldn’t know, you kept
it from me before” etc
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
**I burnt out my head
on the asphalt jungle,
doctor recommended
rest and relaxation
and these little blue pills,
now I'm living in the burbs,
on a cul-de-sac of ritalin rainbows
& my neighbors are druggie unicorns**
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
Dads first girl after mom
Was a painter named Charlotte
Shari for short, like her blonde hair
That's how she wore it
She had a tattoo of a dragon,
And liked pink orchids
And her mom had bonzai trees
Around the garden
She let me cut out pictures of bears
And glue them to cardboard, daisies in my hair
Daddy and Shari broke up when I was 9
Doesn't last long for a druggie and his dime
I still hear her slippers
On the stairs, up and down
Charlotte The Painter is a doctor now
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
You say your not addicted
that you can stop any time
but we both know thats a lie
we know it doesn't really work that way
and you say your okay
and we both know thats a lie
and I HATE being lied to
I can see right through you
but you cant see that
because your high all the time
I can see that pills run your life
im afraid to let to let you out of my sight
because you might overdose
I wonder why
I love
a
druggie
like
you
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
for the hungry
in body, mind and soul
is everybody's business
should be a common goal
*"we have ours my poet friend
a special day? indeed...
soup kitchens aplenty
to minister the need"*
but the drunkard with his bottle
the druggie with her pipe
may not be all that grateful
may even cuss and gripe
why? you may ask yourself.
it's common. it's not news
let me tell you as a one who knows
i walked in them there shoes
holidays are hard
the addicted have the blues
*"they deserve rejection
they are all at fault
they'd pull up their bootstraps
if they were worth their salt!"*
but the folks i speak of
have burnt up family. friends.
it is a cycle they can't stop
sans God it never ends
so giving them a dinner
may fill a certain need
but spreading out the Love of God
is an enduring seed
don't talk down to them
if they are ready, share
you'll find they may just listen
and are tired of despair
we do have a burden
we have a heavy load
showing love to the unlovable
where the rubber hits the road
but if i didn't do it
a hypocrite i'd be
that person with the bottle
save God's grace
could be ME.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/23/2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
How those blue eyes sparkle, like diamonds full of sapphire.
And I cannot imagine the beauty of that big heart of yours.
When mine is so black and ***** and full of soot, but you got one made out of pure flowers, blossoming in the spring time, and those veins are rooted into a body, ready to fulfill good deeds with short notice. But I'm a little bit of an ungrateful ***** at times and you deal with me. And I don't know why, or for what good reason. But you do it without asking, or requiring of me. I'm given a gift, and sometimes I can abuse it. And that's bad and I'm not sure how much you'll put up with till you finally leave like every other person I know. I use constantly, like a impaired druggie, and I know not how to stop. But your the doctor to my disease. If only you could really cure me. And I'm a shooting up, and drinking to much, wondering if you care far too much.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
And if someone asked me how much I miss you, & even though words cannot formulate how much my being aches for you I'd say:
"I think I miss him the way how the football field misses the knees of men, as they kneel in victory.
Think I miss him in the way how a child misses her mother's breast, as she has gotten too old for that now.
Think I miss him the way a mother misses the bulge in her belly, after she has given birth.
Think I miss him the way how the playground misses the children, because they're on summer break.
Think I miss him the way how a druggie misses the smell of *******
Think I miss him the way how a stripper misses the pole after work and the way how a ********** misses being penetrated.
Think I miss him the way how a mother miss her cold blooded, murdered son
Think I miss him the way how the sheet misses lovers after nights of *** only to find out they're lovers no more.
Think I miss him the way the trees miss leaves during fall
And the way how the ground misses the leaves during spring.
Think I miss him the way how the sky misses the moon during the day and the way how it misses the sun during the night.
Think I miss him the way how my lips misses his, and in the way how my finger misses his skin."
And if they ask when I miss you the most:
"I think realize I miss him when the most, when days get rough, and the days when forcing a smile just isn't enough."
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
little creature
little creature
little creature
You talk the talk, all sunken-eyed from a not-so-scant dilaudid habit
but you are a dilettante and can't straight walk the walk
compared to she and I, the comparable brunettes.
You go to the bathroom and snort drugs off your lap b/c u r v sick.
When your girlfriend goes to rehab, don't call me to **** you.
You want to **** me because you like the idea of being loved
and you are two-years-too-late out of touch with being a scene queen,
draghino druggies into bathtubs and baking with Lil B.
You're slipping
and I know that, for sure,
because you tried to kiss me
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.
She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.
He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.
Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a ***** she said,
since I've been
standing here.
Guess you
put them right,
he said.
Do I look
like a *****
she asked.
No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****
She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.
The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.
I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.
He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,
up your *** bores.
Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.
I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.
They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.
Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.
But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.
She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.
He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet
with sandals,
treading the ground.
She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.
They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.
Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.
Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.
Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.
Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.
What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.
She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.
He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.
Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.
Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC