Pools of blood

encroach the den,

the mother whimpers 

when she realizes her son is near-dead.

Lifeless, pale, motionless on the floor,

in his own waste, crumpled to the core.

Needles of misery

linger beside him,

a fantasy land of many surprises.

With needle-scarred hands  

and his eyes blood-shot red

the skeleton rises and limps to his bed.

Smiles have fled,

laughter long gone,

Jeremiah cries the last tears of his fatal song.

On the piss-covered sheets,

discarded and smelly,

hoping he’ll awake when morning comes along.

Struggles are constant,

only silence speaks.

Shackled, barred, and cold

for too many weeks.

Locked in his prison cell

of vomit he reeks.

The adrenaline shoots in;

his body it shakes,

erasing the tragedy

life unshielded makes.

Help he shouts and help he screams;

no answer does come, he is trapped in his dreams,

hidden in life’s nasty old schemes.

Raised a Christian,

he sits and wonders.

Why a God of good,

creates chaos and plunder?

Tons of evil, mounds of hate

what a sad world and what a sad fate.

His scars create a puzzle

which lurks about his face,

proving to the universe,

he’s an eyesore, a disgrace;

a piece of scum, and hardly worthy

to venture into this “sacrificial” place.

Threatened and ashamed,

Jeremiah migrates to the floor

lifts the white substance,

and prays there’ll be more;

snorts the heavenly powder

And falls toward earth’s core.

He voices a plea of justice,

meant for all beings to hear:

help all those in need

stand up and don’t fear,

flee from the sidelines

spread goodness and cheer.

With that Jeremiah bowed to the ground,

closed his eyes, cracked his bones,

making hardly a sound

Fell far down in the earth,

with the rocks and the sand,

dreaming of the day

he hopes will be planned,

salvation and attention,

an escape from the damned.

Onward my soul breezes through

in search of reality, serenity, too.

I still have the cravings,

the shakes and the dreams,

but at least I’m dead

or so that’s what it seems.