Burgundy seeps from a trembling fist,
Supplied from a track on a tortured wrist,
A pulsating vain injected with sap,
Protruding from an arm, tied with a strap.
On a chair he sits soaked in sweat,
Oblivious to the world he tries to forget
His own rancid vomit hangs from his chin,
On a pale gaunt face fixed with a grin.
Evidence left on a stained and filthy rug,
Burned black foil, and green moulding mugs,
An overused needle lay’s where it fell,
A tool from the devil to help this boy to hell.
Each fix he takes much harder than the last,
Ravaging his memory erasing his past,
His weak, damaged body prematurely aged,
What’s left of his soul imprisoned in a cage.
Family disowned him, his girlfriend has gone,
Unable to cope or help him to stay strong,
His friends are all junkies, or dealers on the street,
Feeding their habits with their lies and deceit.
He graduated from college, had a well paid job,
Until the habit took its hold and caused him to rob,
Just in three short years all the good turned to bad,
All he has is his needle, and a life that is sad.
He’ll recover from his fix then go work for the next,
Searching the streets for married men wanting sex,
He’ll score his next fix for a ridiculous price,
Any lethal concoction of drugs will suffice.
He will return to his squat, to his chair on a rug,
Fill up his needle with warmed drugs from a mug,
Tie up his arm and inject crap in his vain,
After a couple of hours, he’ll go and do it again.
