I sit with my fix,
Alone in my chair.
The man in the spoon,
With gear for hair.
He winks as he smiles,
His dirty grin.
The juice of his blood,
I inject through a pin.
His aura is dark,
The buzz keeps me sane.
A sudden hit of lethargy,
Seeps through my brain.
My eyes are his,
As he looks into the sky.
A brainwashing exercise,
The need to get high.
Our meeting of minds,
Entwine another earth.
A life long habit,
The mans secret curse.
Before long its all over,
His presence starts to fade.
A scores worth of junk,
My day he's just made.
I turn the spoon over,
I need him no more.
He's tucked away carefully,
Until the next time I score.
© 2002 All Rights Reserved Robert Reid
Another old poem I found from my 2002 website at the height of my drug abuse.
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