"syringe" poems
Loneliness is a pain,
Not the pain of a knife cutting through skin, sinews, muscles,and drawing blood.
Not the pain of a tooth in your mouth throbbing and sending shocks of horrors through highways of swollen nerves..
Not a fatal pain of a dying cell being devoured by a cancerous growth that thrives on the death and the pain of the very cells that produces its been.
Not the pain of the prisoner s body been tortured by men who see no wrong or feel no shame as they insert sharp hot instruments into natural and man made orifices in their captives helpless, hopeless bodies.
Not the pain of age as the body's functions start their natural march towards unreliability , Hips, knees knuckles, elbows and all the other joints as they begin to slowly dry up and rub against each other like stones rolling down a hillside.
Not the pain of hearts slowing, livers hardening,lungs wheezing like ripped accordians bellows .
Not the pain of childbirth.
Not the pain of accidents that show no fairness to the person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not the pain of self inflicted wounds that can fool you into thinking that that pain is the answer to your problems.
Not the pain of the young healthy times when the body, and mind could accept it and overcome it
Not the pain of hunger or thirst.
Loneliness is the pain of the soul .
Loneliness is the pain of dreams that are dreamt when your asleep and when you'r awake.
Loneliness is the pain of memories . Some half forgotten some that are so clear you could almost touch them.
Some you'd rather forget.
Some you would spend the rest of your life reliving over and over again.
Loneliness is the pain that at times can be part relieved momentarily through the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a point of a syringe filled with a concoction of juices from plants poisonous to both the body and the soul.
Loneliness can never be cured by earthly things. Loneliness is a pain that can only find peace through a kinderd spirit.
Pat Rooney 2013
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
he tells me the
words she does
not care to read,
nor understand.
his words
are narcotics,
rolling thick
off the tongue,
fat and vain.
i tell him the
words she does
not care to read
nor understand.
my words
are flesh wounds,
festering and
upsetting
to the stomach.
he's a medical
overdose,
drugging
to numb the
brash and pain.
i'm an angry
hornet through
your heart
and your mind,
livid and
vindictively
stricken.
thick through
your veins,
eyes a blur
and head a fog,
he's a medical
overdose
with mind of
a syringe
and tongue
laced with
narcotics.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
I started on the rooftop
The empty sky above was all I had
And all I needed
It was pure
Like a blank page
Waiting for a story to be written
But at the first sight of clouds
I fled to the top floor
There were fun and simple things on the top floor
Like Pokémon games
I got red, white, and blue
The monsters seemed so banal and repetitive
But nobody else would acknowledge it
Sending me into a dragon's rage
I tried using flamethrower on Charmander
Ending in futility as I ran out of burn heals
I looked out the window in frustration
Rain was falling outside
Inside
Patriotism was buffeted by the hail
So I devolved into a lower level
Going further down this building
For ***** and giggles
I found more ****
Less giggles
On a floor with a TV displaying the news
I was eager to learn about the world
Only to learn everybody hates each other
And nobody talks
Or cares
And the smartest person in the room
Is the one I agree with the most
Unable to view the tokens in my mind
As anything less than treasure
And those who try to persuade me otherwise
Are thieves
My spite steals tranquility
Like the persistent storm outside
My solution is shelter in lower levels
My experimentation on communication
With the general population
Had rained on my playful parade
But I felt very comfortable on a floor with friends
Until they saw through my charade
Discovering my emotions in disarray
As the people who made me love this building
Made me curse it's walls the more I loved them
I searched for the peaceful embrace of solitude
Once the storm outside transformed into a typhoon
I found that solitude
In a tiny bare room
With a syringe and spoon
I was unaware
That room was an elevator
That lowered me down the concrete void
As the hurricane outside rattled me violently inside my box
Trapped and lacking all agency
I resigned myself to wherever the elevator chose to take me
After the elevator finished pulling me into the basement
The tsunami seemed to cease
But I was buried under debris
I had to burrow out of my tomb
The dig was tedious and *****
My perseverance was heroic
But triumph was thwarted
When I reached the surface
To discover only wreckage remained
And when I looked up
I saw the building I inhabited
It's damaged facade
Made it clear
I would never visit those floors I missed on the elevator
Above my building
Hangs an empty sky
It's purity is a lie
The page was never blank
Just constantly written on and erased
To lure innocent readers into a tome
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
food tubes or road ****
is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
and store front dummies
monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain
and a ****
impaling her
the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like cascading echo's
my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m
a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
c u n t z o o
i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac
gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e
*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me
cuckoo spit
k o cuck k o k o o
twizzles willie milk
in a drowning
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac
wrapped in tentacles of night
she turns me on
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
**** head, struggling for breath
Final hit, before the red
Light flashes, warning to stop
Over dose, **** the innards
She never chose to lose this
Battle, between herself & it
Where'd she go, lost in space
Chasing herself, a dog with his tail
Praying to an above, to lead her
Straight laced, not swerving off track
Please God save me, her last plea
Before another day dawns, her final wish
Sketcher, tweaker, where's that syringe
The lights too bright, reality a curse
Rolled up in rehab, another ghetto kid
Not this girl, high class, white, moneyed
Lost to the night, speed freak, hopeless
Drowning in addiction, using again
Chemical structures defining her fate
Her brain the game
Disfigured face, unrecognizable eyes
Family love, isn't ever enough
Rushed to ER, another broken soul
Promises that drugs will save her
When only she can ever
Save herself
This time, she's not another life
Lost
The Gods sure blessed her, not with
Her wish
So she's packaged off to rehab
The third times a charm, right?
© Sia Jane
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
She's got her eyes on her hand holding somebody else's
and she's got tiny planets stuck on her tongue
She doesn't understand how nice his hands felt covering hers,
how it reminded her of cotton fields
Funny how he has cotton candy smiles to match everything else about him
He makes her want to shed her skin twenty times
until she's clean enough to touch
But he also makes her want to grab a syringe
and inject some insulin into her bloodstream—
The whole thought of him frightened her to catatonic
and she knew her diabetic heart cannot handle such sweetness
She wants so much to let go of his hand
but he would smile and he would laugh and he would be
heavenly
and she would hate herself for ruining this
So she watches on at her hand holding somebody else's
and grit her teeth to the tiny planets exploding in her mouth
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Oh, what a horrible night
Definitely not late December back in '63
These are the Frankie valleys of my days
Night is always black
Night always comes back
Night envelopes us in the abyss
And makes us cherish light
Heightening our senses
To help us handle the unknown
When my days are filled with stimulation
The stillness of night sinks me
Into quicksand mixed by
The current of my mind
Overflowing into the sands of time
And reminds me
Of the stillness of my eyes locked on you
Or the stillness of my actions as you walk by
Or the stillness of my heart when you call me a ******
My frustration boiled
Night's black tar
So I bottled it up
Placed it in a syringe
And medicated my love with darkness
I worked my first job at the local Kroger's
People would leave with everything they wanted
And I'd push their empty carts back into the store
The artificial lights of the street lamps
Lacked warmth
Their hypnotic buzz highlighted
The stillness of night
Making me wonder if there was any way I could be happy
Similar to when activity would die down in rehab
A pitiful wretch left to his faculties
I'd stare out the window
Into the concrete chasm
And wonder if happiness could be found by someone like me
Night continues
Night confines
Day comes
And goes
Night returns
Night reburns
Night relearned
I really hate to see the day come to an end
It'd be alright if I was on the bay with a pen
But I live near sulfur vents
Inside a searing tent
Where the hellacious temperature rises rapidly
Despite the absence of the sun's warmth
The hellfire of night
Reminisces of those
I have thoroughly failed
And my overwhelming remorse
As I stare out my window
Into the bramble ravine
I wonder about the possibility of contentment
The stillness of night answers me
But at least now I can open the door
And charge into the night headstrong
To search frantically
For someone who
Erases my history
And writes my future
And makes me wonder if I could ever be happier
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
I concede,
I yield,
I cave,
I give in.
My 2 weeks put themselves
in centuries ago.
I've fallen from my self-righteous high horse;
a stallion meant only for
those full of their own capability.
For so long
I've fought more than 'tooth and nail',
more than 'blood sweat and tears'.
Fought harder than 'life or death'.
I've fought to the diminishment
of my brazen,
furious soul.
Worn my own sharp
rapturous vigor for this life
down to a dull
dull syringe.
Even the most skilled,
determined ****** couldn't
tap a main line vien
with what now remains.
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 7:26 PM UTC
Where, oh where has this money been?
It's been up to London to buy me a woman.
When you'd had your pleasure, what else did you there?
Took in a live show, some sights to enjoy.
When you had seen, what did you then?
Went home to the wife, a yarn to spin.
Did you not waste such hard-earned cash?
I need the excitement, the seedy thrill.
Where, oh where has this money been?
Changed hands in a back street for needle and syringe.
What was then done to inject some feeling?
A little ****** just to keep me going.
But what about AIDS and ***
It's one of those things that won't happen to me.
How do you finance such expensive tastes?
Sell stuff to kids at the going rate.
Where, oh where has this money been?
It bought me a meal and a little something to drink.
How did you earn this financial gain?
Begged it off some geezer down the Embankment.
Why are you out here sleeping so rough?
It's a long tale of women, gambling and drink.
What of these others with whom you share this door?
Just poor bleeding kids with no ******* jobs.
Where, oh where has this money been?
It bought me a contract with a few back handers.
And who did you bribe for their deceit?
Oh, it wasn't bribery, just a little commercial grease.
What will you build to make your mark?
Another block of flats, fully air-conditioned.
On what in the past is your empire built?
Prostitution, gambling, and a few tons of drugs.
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
*How much do you have to hate life,
to not be scared of death?*
- ThePoet
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't
Because I really am afraid
But life has only sharp things
Wonder if death is willing to trade...
Longing
...a splinter
Embedded in the recesses of my core
Nestled deep, this tiny thorn
The source of my disconcerting sore
Need
...a shard
That stabs itself deep
Extract it I will not
Think it's worth the keep
Miss
...a knife
With never a dull blade
Stabs itself right through
Pain that will never fade
Want
...a syringe
Injecting the good and bad
Side effects loom
Driving me quite mad
Love
...a stake
Rammed into my heart
It doubles me over
It rips me apart
Life
...a spike
Impaling without fail
Siphoning my soul
Through the holes in my mail
These are the few sharp things that I own
The only things I've learnt to savour
I've nurtured them large; now fully grown
Always wondered what death has got to offer...
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
Enticing poppy,
an unwitting aid,
one vial of your blood
they **** to accrue.
I’ve never felt you
course deep through my veins
yet, my soul's tarnished,
family destroyed.
**** you, sweet flower,
repossess your gift
that eats from within.
We’ve no want for the
paltry donation
encased in syringe.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
When the summer heat spreads
across the lush greenery,
and marigolds, rudbeckia, and sunflowers
stretch out in the bright sunshine,
I sit in a cool room
and I ask myself why
the loved body,
in which the link
between free will and muscles
has broken,
feels so heavy, so shapeless.
Why does water, given through a syringe,
become the holy grail of hydration —
to quench the flame that’s fading out?
Water and flame —
The paradox of creation.
How much quiet dignity there is in this.
Summer is already leaving,
looking in through the window,
saying softly it’s sorry
that things turned out this way.
It says farewell,
believing that next year
I might be at peace with myself.
I put on an orange blouse
to keep unwanted thoughts at bay.
I hold warmth in my hand.
I whisper:
don’t go yet!
I don’t want to fall apart.
Though I know
the voice is calling him
on a one-way journey.
I look through the window.
I look at the body.
I look at the helplessness
that’s sat down next to me.
I can’t do much.
I can’t do anything.
I cut through the silence.
I closed what was hurting me.
The world breathes quietly.
And we listen —
to Beatles songs:
let it be,
yeah, let it be,
let it be.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
Love:
Affection, Admiration, Lust, Adoration...
There are at least 65 different definitions of the word.
Feelings that inspire books of poetry or expressions of love unheard.
How is it measured?
Perhaps with a caliper
to measure its depth and breadth.
Or with a sound meter
To measure the volume and decibel or the whispering of a breath.
Could you measure it in pints or cups or ounces in a measuring cup?
"My cup runneth over"
Can it be measured with a thermometer?
"I'm burning up."
How heavy is true love - can it be weighed on the scales?
Can you measure love with a compass - to what degree does love prevail?
Can a speedometer track the speed by which one falls in love?
Or an odometer measure the distance at which love can still be felt?
Can you use a syringe to limit your doses of love before it's lethal?
Can you attach a heart monitor and check how a lover's heart beats faster
or the health of their love - strong or weak?
Can the rhythm & harmony be counted out on a metronome
Can a polygraph test prove it is true?
Can the magnitude of love be measured using a microscope, binoculars or a telescope - maybe Hubble. How does one know how to bring it into "focus"?
How mysterious that love is so indistinguishable, so immeasurable, so evasive & yet SO BIG!
Yet no one - except for God - knows the true measure of Love & its ability to heal, to hurt.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
I crave self destruction
I crave bleeding veins
And sleepless nights spent in a fit of craze
Mascara smeared
And fresh white scars
Like a flag
Betray the heart
I crave desperation
I crave a hollowed syringe
And the feeling in your stomach standing on the edge of a bridge
One false move
One small slip
And there you go
Lost to the abyss
I crave contamination
I crave a stranger’s touch
And crave to readily welcome just as much
Both in romance and rivalry
Biting lips
Or clashing fists
Teeth sinking into skin
Tongues grazing wrists
I crave pain
I crave adrenaline
Knowing the mistress, Danger
Making love to her
But I can’t seem to find her here
So I search in the bottles
I search with my knuckles against the walls
With metal on my thighs
And poisonous, addicting, burning lies
I crave
And I search
And I crave
And I search
And I climb and climb
And ride the high
Of flirting with Danger
My, oh my
But it’s been a while now since she’s flipped my switch
‘Careful, now,’ she whispers
And at last I lose my grip
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 3:01 AM UTC
I sat on the dentist’s chair
With an aching tooth, feeling hell
The dentist seemed quite pleased
As he opened my mouth and surveyed
‘There are holes to be filled
And the plaque to be removed
It needs a few sittings
At the end, you’ll have a set of fine teeth’!
His gentle assurance was so comforting
And I thought my jaws no more have to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth!
He then, in a narrow syringe
Injected something into my gum
I knew a numbness creeping in
Until at last I felt a hard rock within
Now, like an expert work man
He began his rigorous craft
Loud machines began to boom
The chair got flattened
From 'verticality'
I got changed into 'horizontality'
And the overhead apparatus came down
Like an eagle swooping down on its prey.
With blaring lights blinding my vision,
I lay torpid as if my body was strapped
The doctor took out his steel and hammer
And started tapping and chipping
Drilling and boring
Though numb, I could still feel the pull and tug
The crooked forceps and pliers
Made all the nerves in my head irk
My mouth was filled with saliva
And I felt a sprout of blood inside
He stuffed some gauze and resumed his work
I wanted to yell, ask him to stop
But being gagged, I couldn’t utter a word
My pupils dilated
My lips quivered
My tongue got parched
I gasped for breath
With a mix of cement and sand (?)
He began filling and plastering
Scrubbing and polishing
Helplessly lying on the dentist’s chair,
I wondered
What whips and stings one has to endure
To end the pain and give the teeth a shine!
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
He started feeling sorry for himself
long before he had seen his reflection
in shimmery linoleum tiles
that stretched into blind corners
before the snap of magnetic doors
woke melancholy macaroni people
strapped to rolling recliners
staring past Plexiglas TV's
He wore yesterday on his shirt
a step at a time...
one two, one two
felt breaths collectively stop
when he walked the halls...
one two, one two
like watching a one legged cricket
with your hand over your mouth
As cold as this place was
his head had been on fire
slammed into paper cups
filled with pastel colored
blues and pinks and
why pills
rattled at him like a baby
He fell face first into tomorrows
slobbered on wooden spoons
for vanilla ice cream
that he said tasted like Wednesday
He would get animated
when they ran out of Wednesday
and had many rattle cup nights
****** up through a syringe
hands and thumps
pressed him up against
heavy beds of oak bolted to the floor
gloves pulled his hair
when he smelled like yelling
into plastic mattresses
the same color as his *****
and no one wants him *******
while their eyes are closed
they want to see it
they want to say things like
"we'll talk about this later"
wrap his wrists in sheep's wool, in skin
from his ******* clasped by buckles, pulled
tight enough to close his eyes
He should have **** his pants
because chocolate doesn't have a taste
and neither did feeling sorry for himself
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ̀ˋ
Fighters in midst of war,
A war without guns and bombs so far,
instead, a syringe with vaccines and drugs,
Wearing PPE battledress, a little snug,
Against invisible opponents, that's bizarre,
They called front-liners, our star.
Despite the danger ahead of them,
They still chose to risk their lives, what a gem,
So people stay indoor and pray,
Wear masks and clean your hands every day.
To our dearest front-liners,
You are all the best, ever,
Will we forget you? never,
We will remember you forever.
We love you to the core,
Today and forevermore,
Our precious front-liners,
Let's be safe and fight this together.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC
When I was a kid all I wanted to do was smoke ****
But nowadays its harder stuff that my body really needs
In my teenage yeas smoking on a spliff
It would seem to be a substantial lift
Before long though my depression took hold
Alcohol and cigarettes making me look old
I fell into a bad crowd, moving drugs that were illicit
My life moving so fast I probably could have missed it
MDMA in my system and I felt so loved
Ecstasy wasn't enough to see God above
I experimented with psychedelics and I had a real ball
But my habits got deeper, and my friends, I lost them all
I turned to the streets to pay for my increasing routines
But my job on the street interferes with my dreams
So now I'm just a shadow of my former self
A syringe smiles at me from the bottom shelf
Sometimes I need a little bump just to get my mind right
But often times a bump can turn into a wild night
Sometimes I need to get level with some golden dope
But too much of that **** and my life can lose all hope
I often wonder if my life would be alright
If I was never molested on that dreary night
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 5:16 AM UTC
Micro vampires
A disease spreading blood lust;
The devil's syringe
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
1. I want to have dipped my fingertips into eternity and fingerpainted my heart with it.
2. I want to have shoved my fingers down my throat enough times to rid myself of self-hatred.
3. I want to nail the palms of my hands to the Big Dipper. I want to sleep among the stars, and allow their light to cover me like thick blankets. I'd like to learn the simplicity of the galaxy's effortless beauty.
4. I would like to create a vaccination to save children from the growing plague we call "adulthood."
5. I would like to create a vaccination to save adults from it, too.
6. I want to fill syringe after syringe with glitterglue and stab them so far into my veins that my heart becomes a disco ball.
7. I want to become the temple that you come to to pray.
8. I want to become what I will be without fighting to the finish line, and I want a canopy of fireflies hanging from the bone of my skull.
9. I want you to tell me that you are in love with my ears, so I can cut one off, become Vincent Van Gogh and make you miss my ear like I miss the twinkle in your eyes when you tell me you love me.
10. I want every freckle on my skin to become small islands you can lose yourself on.
11. I want to change the views on "skinny" and "fat" and remind the girl made of only bone that once upon a time I was made of only bone too. Then, I found cupcakes.
12. I want to spin the world upside down and yell "Look ma! No happiness!"
13. I want to pass on my DNA and create something that I am actually proud of for once.
14. I want to make my life worth more than just a poem, or a picture, or a forgotten memory.
15. I want to stop the hands on a clock from ticking past midnight to preserve the saying "There's always tomorrow!", because once that clock strikes twelve another tomorrow will be gone.
16. Most importantly, I want to have filled the hole in me with something other than ***
And I want to fill the hole in you with something other than half-fulfilled broken dreams.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 8:35 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