The thing about drugs
Is that they never judged me,
Or ridiculed me,
Or told me
That I was awful
At all of the things,
That I love to do.
They coated the pain
Of this chronic loneliness,
And sadness,
That I have felt
All my life,
In a sea of forgetful warmth.
Drugs never abused me.
I abused drugs.
They made me feel different,
And happy for a moment,
And I thought
That I could unlock parts of my mind,
And sometimes I did.
But, at the end of the day,
I found myself, more often than not,
Locked in the dark, dank, and lonely closet
Of the despair
That is addiction,
Isolating myself in dirty public restrooms
With a dull needle
Full of blood in my arm,
A glass pipe in my mouth,
Burning my lips and fingers,
Powder flaking
From my bleeding nose,
My face stuck to floor,
In a pool of dried vomit.
After each blackout,
After each overdose,
After each suicide attempt,
I would wonder;
How did I become
That which I never thought
I would never be?
Though I’ve never even touched drugs, I can feel and understand “you” through your poetry. You “make sense.”
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Thank you. Don’t use drugs, they don’t help at all.
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