My Lust for Drugs

Tue, 11/04/2014 - 21:31 -- -aspen

Location

They say love is a drug.

It's no wonder I'm always so high.

I abuse too much, never sober enough.

His laugh is my cocaine, addictive and exhilarating.

When his lips meet mine, it's pure bliss

similar to tripping on magic mushrooms in a macabre moon lit maze.

Dark and beautiful, those dismal ebony eyes are allusive and alluring.

Maybe that's what drew me to him.

He was my Prozac.

Some days are great, perfectly fine.

But I've lost track of time and now am walking a fine line. 

I'm slipping back into my old ways.

Considerable amounts of Prozac, grams of Cocaine in abundance, and a great

deal of shrooms. This must've been what Alice felt like.

I think I've finally overdosed.

I am starting to slip, 

                  slip,

            away.

 

But not to worry, 

for I've stopped my old ways.

Still taking Prozac, in much smaller doses.

I'm sorry. I lied. I'm not doing fine.

LSD, PCP, or "Angel Dust" have all been added to the bunch.

Loving him is all I know.

Stopping is unimaginable, I'm scared.

Dangling over a cliff are my sanity and wits.

Please don't go, I say.

Come back, I plead. But he pushed me.

 Pushed me over the cliff.

Angels aren't real, I whisper, as I watch it drip. Hardly any at first, but

what comes next is the worst. Soon I am in a puddle of crimson red mud.

The scent of copper filled the air as I drifted,

                                                                drifted,

                                                   away.

 

Did it work? I thought, as I started to wake.

That notion was dismissed as I glanced at my wrists.

What a beautiful painting it was.

What a tragedy it is, such a waste of a perfect porcelain canvas.

My paint is ruined, I worried. My brush is lost.

I can't even go on, my Prozac has long since been gone.

My Cocaine, my PCP, my shrooms, they've all been abused.

So here I still lay, for here is where I failed.

Where I failed to end it all, and now I have no choice,

but to endure this hell.

There's another way, someone whispered.

Then, in my hand, was a heavy black pistol.

It's easy, they said. The only way out.

I finally found my cyanide, my relief, my end.

I've been waiting so long, I thought, as I quickly faded,

                                             faded,

                                                   away.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741