Jutting Needle

Back when I was an addict,
I had this friend who,
No matter how hard he tried to act,
Who,
Was never indirect,
Who,
Always had something negative to say,
And one day he said,
“Men never change; women never stay the same;
Tragic, isn’t it?”

But through the haze it was difficult to see,
Through the inner turmoil it was difficult to feel,
His pain,
Reining me in,
Crying for help,
Saying “Charlie, can’t you see I am drowning?”

“Charlie, can’t you see?”
No buddy,
Charlie couldn’t see,
Charlie couldn’t feel,
Charlie couldn’t hear your cry for help!
Hell Charlie could not even hear his own cry for help!

Back when I was an addict,
I had this friend who,
Always had something smart to say,
I had this friend who,
Always knew how to feel,
Who,
Knew how to be funny,
Who,
In spite of the needle sticking from his arm,
Knew happiness could steer away any harm.

One day he said,
“The mind is a funny thing Charlie,
It can make hell of heaven and heaven of hell.”
And then one day,
My friend just didn’t have anything more to say.
One day he,
Just stayed silent and no matter how hard I tried,
And dear Lord I tried mighty hard,
One day he,
Just stayed mum.

Back when I was an addict,
I lost a friend,
With a needle jutting out of his vein,
Like a branch it stuck out,
Like a perversion of humanity,
This needle,
This thing,
So ugly, so scary, so…
So lovely it swooped in one night,
And in the morning my friend was gone.

The look on his face when I saw him,
The terror in his glassy eyes,
The drying vomit from his mouth,
And onto his clothes,
Dirtying his garments,
Dirtying whatever dignity he,
Whatever dignity I,
Whatever dignity we had left,

There simply was no making a heaven out of this hell.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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