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Sara Kellie Jun 2018
The head fuckery of societies rules.
The indoctrination in our schools
has led to the homeless on our streets while politicians count their seats.
The privileged few, too rich to mention
fail to reveal their true intention.

The NHS setup to break by psychopaths all on the take.
Big business stripped of all its gold,
no pension funds left for the old.
Big pharma, they don't miss a trick,
they're making you & I feel sick.
They push the pills that ring the tills
even though they know it kills.

With the best advice and greatest will
our kids are on **** & fentanyl.
While drinking water turns a son
into a daughter,
it's Atrazine that makes
a King a Queen.

While we're divided black & white,
we'd never stand up to their might
So take your neighbour, hold their hand and together we'll reclaim our land.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Utopia is a planet with no borders & free movement of a free people.
M-E Mar 8
He is a painter
who dreamed big
as The eiffel tower or
The statue of liberty
Descendant of The Monalisa and
The painter's self-portrait without a beard

He bought some paints and canvasses
but not some Aspirin
or Vicodin or anything
for the headach He had but
a frr.. a frrrr. That thing gave him
a homemade Advil-like pill, which it was
Fentanyl which is Morphine like only
its more like its a Hydrogen bomb
He slept but never woke up
to dream big, again

Not far from him
In a bar stool
in a beautiful town
with good people and
the same kind of ****** people
A beautiful lady, She was sitting
in that beautiful town, on a stool
when a charming prince facade
asked her for a ride
but before She decide, he offered her a drink
so She will not think he is a  tool
One drink, two drinks, maybe thirteen!!
Rohypnol inbetween
******* down
Think twice before
Lowering trust crown

Inspired:
I apologize if this is offensive by Deb Jones
Deb Jones Mar 2
I am going to assume most of you may already know this but if you buy or are given opioids from people you don’t know well enough to trust or even people you trust who may not know better....

They look exactly like OxyContin or Vicodin, Percocet, Xanex but they may be homemade and cut with Fentanyl.

They get the Fentanyl from China.

People can buy a pill maker from amazon or eBay and also the stamps that imprint on the pills and you can’t tell them apart from the real pharmaceutical medications.

****** is derived from morphine. But Fentanyl is  morphine-like except 50-100 times more powerful.

Because the drug pushers are cutting them with synthetic made Fentanyl they are not monitoring the amount of Fentanyl they are using.

One kid was given a xanex because he was having problems sleeping. He took a quarter of the pill. He died in his sleep.

We are having an epic crisis. 64,000 in 2016. Think about that for a minute.
66% of those deaths were due to Fentanyl.

A tiny amount of Fentanyl...less than a speck of loose powder can ****.

In one small college town there were over 20 overdoses in one night. One was a woman that took one Vicodin to sleep and she OD’d on Fentanyl that she didn’t even know she was taking. Just one pill can **** you.

The government is even looking at Fentanyl as a drug to use as a lethal injection for death row inmates.

I was given Fentanyl once about 6 months ago for a kidney stone. I melted into the bed and knew my breathing was shallow. The next few hours I couldn’t even keep my oxygen level up. They gave me oxygen and my heart rate slowed significantly. I had to be told to take a deep breath over and over again. When I was finally able to feel like I could express myself, I told them never, ever again.

Please tell your kids not to accept pills from anyone. I know we already have those talks with them. But really say it more than once.

At $9 a pop per fake Vicodin even preteens are using them.

If you have read this so far then I just want to say one other thing.

Prince died of Fentanyl toxicity. But the only pills they found in his home was Vicodin. He became addicted after a hip replacement. A man that would not allow drugs around him. When tested they were fake and all the ones tested were lethal doses. 1 pill.

Deb.
Jack Jun 2018
Need drugs for my composure just can't seem to stay sober
Need closure to stay sober oh what overexposure
Dilated pupils and blood shot eyes the voices are mean she calls out and cries
Bars of white powder, crisp and cut clean
Coated with fentanyl just not for the eye to  see
A band-aid with a bow tie or a fix with a twist
I can't count the days sober
Oh what overexposure

(C)
SJG Feb 19
(You could try falling in love
With the horizon line of your cityscape,
Or the crack in your garage roof,
Or the stars that flash and go
Like a prize that's changed hands so many times,
It's lost sight of its value
In a world driven madly by the urge
To move forward, whatever the cost.)

Somewhere in the Central Valley,
"I WANNA ABIDE BY HIS LOVE" is written in black Sharpee along the blank screen of a cathode TV that's been abandoned to the sands.

You get up midday.
You do **** around the house.
You take a fentanyl.
You stand in the doorway.
You smoke a cigarette.

You watch the sun descend behind the fence at the end of your yard.

You go to bed.

And it's just life again.
It's life upon you, baby.
Wade Redfearn Sep 2018
The first settlers to the area called the Lumber River Drowning Creek. The river got its name for its dark, swift-moving waters. In 1809, the North Carolina state legislature changed the name of Drowning Creek to the Lumber River. The headwaters are still referred to as Drowning Creek.

Three p.m. on a Sunday.
Anxiously hungry, I stay dry, out of the pool’s cold water,
taking the light, dripping into my pages.
A city with a white face blank as a bust
peers over my shoulder.
Wildflowers on the roads. Planes circle from west,
come down steeply and out of sight.
A pinkness rises in my breast and arms:
wet as the drowned, my eyes sting with sweat.
Over the useless chimneys a bank of cloud piles up.
There is something terrible in the sky, but it keeps breaking.
Another is dead. Fentanyl. Sister of a friend, rarely seen.
A hand reaches everywhere to pass over eyes and mouths.
A glowing wound opens in heaven.
A mirror out of doors draws a gyre of oak seeds no one watches,
in the clear pool now sunless and black as a cypress swamp.

Bitter water freezes the muscles and I am far from shore.
I paddle in the shallows, near the wooden jail.
The water reflects a taut rope,
feet hanging in the breeze singing mercy
at the site of the last public hanging in the state.
A part-white fugitive with an extorted confession,
loved by the poor, dumb enough to get himself captured,
lonely on this side of authority: a world he has never lived in
foisting itself on the world he has -
only now, to steal his drunken life, then gone again.

1871 - Henderson Oxendine, one of the notorious gang of outlaws who for some time have infested Robeson County, N. C., committing ****** and robbery, and otherwise setting defiance to the laws, was hung at Lumberton, on Friday last in the presence of a large assemblage. His execution took place a very few days after his conviction, and his death occurred almost without a struggle.

Today, the town square collapses as if scorched
by the whiskey he drank that morning to still himself,
folds itself up like Amazing Grace is finished.
A plinth is laid
in the shadow of his feet, sticky with pine,
here where the water sickens with roots.
Where the canoe overturned. Where the broken oar floated and fell.
Where the snake lives, and teethes on bark,
waiting for another uncle.

Where the tobacco waves near drying barns rusted like horseshoes
and cotton studs the ground like the cropped hair of the buried.
Where schoolchildren take the afternoon
to trim the kudzu growing between the bodies of slaves.
Where appetite is met with flood and fat
and a clinic for the heart.
Where barges took chips of tar to port,
for money that no one ever saw.

Tar sticks the heel but isn’t courage.
Tar seals the hulls -
binds the planks -
builds the road.
Tar, fiery on the tongue, heavy as bad blood in the family -
dead to glue the dead together to secure the living.
Tar on the roofs, pouring heat.
Tar is a dark brown or black viscous liquid of hydrocarbons and free carbon,
obtained from a wide variety of organic materials
through destructive distillation.
Tar in the lungs will one day go as hard as a five-cent candy.

Liberty Food Mart
Cheapest Prices on Cigarettes
Parliament $22.50/carton
Marlboro $27.50/carton

The white-bibbed slaughterhouse Hmong hunch down the steps
of an old school bus with no air conditioner,
rush into the cool of the supermarket.
They pick clean the vegetables, flee with woven bags bulging.
What were they promised?
Air conditioning.
And what did they receive?
Chickenshit on the wind; a dead river they can't understand
with a name it gained from killing.

Truth:
A man was flung onto a fencepost and died in a front yard down the street.
A girl with a grudge in her eyes slipped a razorblade from her teeth and ended recess.
I once saw an Indian murdered for stealing a twelve-foot ladder.
The red line indicating heart disease grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating cardiovascular mortality grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating motor vehicle deaths grows higher and higher.
I burn with the desire to leave.

The stories make us full baskets of dark. No death troubles me.
Not the girl's blood, inert, tickled by opiates,
not the masked arson of the law;
not the smell of drywall as it rots,
or the door of the safe falling from its hinges,
or the chassis of cars, airborne over the rise by the planetarium,
three classmates plunging wide-eyed in the river’s icy arc –
absent from prom, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts -
the gunsmoke at the home invasion,
the tenement bisected by flood,
the cattle lowing, gelded
by agriculture students on a field trip.

The air contains skin and mud.
The galvanized barns, long empty, cough up
their dust of rotten feed, dry tobacco.
Men kneel in the tilled rows,
to pick up nails off the ground
still splashed with the blood of their makers.

You Never Sausage a Place
(You’re Always a ****** at Pedro’s!)
South of the Border – Fireworks, Motel & Rides
Exit 9: 10mi.

Drunkards in Dickies will tell you the roads are straight enough
that the drive home will not bend away from them.
Look in the woods to see by lamplight
two girls filling each other's mouths with smoke.
Hear a friendly command:
boys loosening a tire, stuck in the gut of a dog.
Turn on the radio between towns of two thousand
and hear the tiny voice of an AM preacher,
sharing the airwaves of country dark
with some chords plucked from a guitar.
Taste this water thick with tannin
and tell me that trees do not feel pain.
I would be a mausoleum for these thousands
if I only had the room.

I sealed myself against the flood.
Bodies knock against my eaves:
a clutch of cats drowned in a crawlspace,
an old woman bereft with a vase of pennies,
her dead son in her living room costumed as the black Jesus,
the ***** oil of a Chinese restaurant
dancing on top of black water.
A flow gauge spins its tin wheel
endlessly above the bloated dead,
and I will pretend not to be sick at dinner.

Misery now, a struggle ahead for Robeson County after flooding from Hurricane Matthew
LUMBERTON
After years of things leaving Robeson County – manufacturing plants, jobs, payrolls, people – something finally came in, and what was it but more misery?

I said a prayer to the city:
make me a figure in a figure,
solvent, owed and owing.
Take my jute sacks of wristbones,
my sheaves and sheaves of fealty,
the smell of the forest from my feet.
Weigh me only by my purse.
A slim woman with a college degree,
a rented room without the black wings
of palmetto roaches fleeing the damp:
I saw the calm white towers and subscribed.
No ingrate, I saved a space for the lost.
They filled it once, twice, and kept on,
eating greasy flesh straight from the bone,
craning their heads to ask a prayer for them instead.

Downtown later in the easy dark,
three college boys in foam cowboy hats shout in poor Spanish.
They press into the night and the night presses into them.
They will go home when they have to.
Under the bridge lit in violet,
a folding chair is draped in a ***** blanket.
A grubby pair of tennis shoes lay beneath, no feet inside.
Iced tea seeps from a chewed cup.
I pass a bar lit like Christmas.
A mute and pretty face full of indoor light
makes a promise I see through a window.
I pay obscene rents to find out if it is true,
in this nation tied together with gallows-rope,
thumbing its codex of virtues.
Considering this just recently got rejected and I'm free to publish it, and also considering that the town this poem describes is subject once again to a deluge whose damage promises to be worse than before, it seemed like a suitable time to post it. If you've enjoyed it, please think about making a small donation to the North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund at the URL below:
https://governor.nc.gov/donate-florence-recovery
By: Cedric McClester

Smoke a blunt?
Somebody's gonna!
Though it ain’t
The same marijuana
That they smoked
Back in the day
So what’s inside it anyway?
Truthfully, it’s hard to say

It might be laced with
Fentanyl
Until you smoked it
How could you tell?
Ya see, it’s properties
Don’t ring a bell
So their affects
Could be hell

And now they rush
To legalize
For the dollars
I’d surmise
Whether, or not
That move is wise
See those who object
Are ostracized

Yet all the evidence
Isn’t in
And that alone
Speaks to the sin
The wise go slow
But fools rush in
So John Q Public
Takes it on the chin








Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2019.  All rights reserved.
jonas ernust Aug 24
I wish my name was Ryan or chase and I had no hobbies or interests outside of smashing hoes and the gym.
I wish I could just eat Panera everyday and drink with my bros and go to Peru with my daddy's money. I wish I had all the connections and sure-set entrance into the firm
I wish I could meet some newage ***** named McKayla with a flower sleeve who listens to imagine dragons and Bobby eilish and have some kids. I wish she'd cheat on me with Kevin and take all my money and then divorce me and accuse me of **** and send me to prison where I get ***** too. I wish my sons grew up to be junkies and overdosed on fentanyl. I wish my country became some culturless ******* devoid of value and meaning and was a consumerist nightmare and I worked like a peon for a bleak future. I wish I knew how to make spaghetti. I'm a ******. I wish I was gay amd cared about Taylor swift or popular media. I wish I had a loaded gun so I could go to the gun range like a normal sane practioner of the second amendment. I wish I could be god and make rainbows. I will stop now. It's so boring
Lol lol lol lol lol
Mike Hauser Nov 2018
I've seen them come
I've seen them go
I've seen the needle
Take another soul
I've seen the vacuum
I've seen the hole
I've seen things
I'd rather not know

I've seen them beg
I've seen them cry
I've seen them lose
I've seen them die
I've seen broken mothers
Wonder why
I've seen it all
Through tear-filled eyes

I've seen the needle
I've seen the cost
I've seen it all
Through thickened walls
I've seen men when
They take the fall
Get up again
Then do more

I've seen them do
Without a doubt
I've seen them cut
Their clientele
Treat them worse
Then they would a dog
Send them to hell
With Fentanyl

I've seen them come
I've seen them go
I've seen them beg
For another dose
And when there's nothing
Left to own
I've seen them die
All alone
By: Cedric McClester

If not for the pills
Doctors once prescribed
The musician Prince
Might still be alive
Along with others who
Sought similar relief
Because their stories too
Ended in grief

If not for the greed
On Big Pharma’s part
The opioid epidemic
Right from the start
Might not have grown
To epic proportions
Because of ignorance
And outright distortions

If not for the relaxed
Government regulations
We might not now
Be at our battle stations
Trying to reverse
What’s sweeping our nation
Because opioids doesn’t
Go on vacation

If not for the prevalence
Of the fentanyl drug
And its purveyors
Who are typically smug
Then we might not have
Gotten mugged
In the way that we have
By this deadly drug


            Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

— The End —