Crack
He's got a weighty monkey on his back ,
it's that small white stone that they call crack,
he inhales the smoke from a glass pipeĀ
and his eyes open wide with delight,
but he can't just have one shot,
he blows away all the money that he's got,
even lying to his friends,Ā
the downward spiral never seems to end,
stealing to fund his habit,
he's like a fast moving car in heavy traffic,Ā
we all try to help him as best we can,
but he is a grown man,
can do what he wants with his life,
could have been different if he'd taken a wife,
someone to love,
then he wouldn't have to score this destructive drug,
it won't be long before he loses the roof over his head,
a cold park bench is all that he will have to call his bed,
begging for change for a ten bag,
this is surely the nastiest habit he has ever had,
it is rapidly dragging him down,
in the crack smoke he prays to drown,
existence is such a mess,
get some help is all that I can suggest,Ā
otherwise soon he will end up on a mortuary slab,
after coughing himself to death in the back of a taxi cab.
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Comments
Wow, Barry. If I didn't know otherwise I'd say you've actually lived through this kind of pain due to addiction. This is too real to be merely speculative.
We all have our vices, and one is no better than another.
Some smoke cigarettes, like me.
Some drink to drown their pain.
We all do what we gotta do to get by.
Then...when we've hit rock bottom, we get down on our knees and pray.
Nicely penned...
Peace.
~Dean ā
Your not far off,I have to take heavy medication which I am dependent on in order for me to lead a reasonably sane life but the poem was an attempt to make a close friend of mine realise the consequences of what he was doing
So, you've lived it second hand--I get it.
Like I said, we all have our vices.
Mine is smoking cigarettes, lighting black candles and writing dark poetry.
Take care,
~Dean