Creeping into my nostrils, my mouth, my lungs.
Hits with every inhale.
Piss and fish. Stink so thick and tangible.
A smell you can touch.
Flame beneath tin-foil, split second relief.
Never could catch that dragon.
Colors blur, music fades.
Lost.
Pain no longer exists in this blind, narcotic delirium.
More real than reality.
Wallpaper becomes technicolor kaleidoscope.
Eyes closed, rushing motor-ways of silhouetted blood-vessels.
“Dude, give me a hit.”
No. You are gone, and I am no longer here.
Inflated head, numbed face. Tingling flesh, electric fire.
Junk sickness healed.
Heated spoons, pins into flat veins.
Just one more time.
It's good, oh! It's so good.
Just one more time.
Empty wallet, empty cupboards.
Knocking on the doors of empty flats.
Just one more time.
Junkies live on junk time.
Times between score and the next score.
Shake, sweat, crawl, cry.
Just one more time.
Just one more.
Forever.
Regards,
Kurt Ethen Jarram
A very dark, deep piece about heroin and its influence. It really puts you in the shoes of an addict. This piece is by Kurt Ethen Jarram! Please leave feedback, fellow poets!
Check out Kurt's DA profile: HERE
Also check out the original post: HERE
(And don't forget to share your poetry with us on the top right of the blog!) Thanks again for the awesome submission SpiralingSpontaneity !
No comments:
Post a Comment