Words from a Dishonest Poet

The Study of Cocaine.

        He sat there with his head in his hands. There was graphite and red pen smudges on the side of his palms, his pencil practically laced in-between his fingers. The boy, this man, or somewhere in between, sits at his desk every day. He would sit, study, write, and learn. He was plagued by the nightmares of his future. Before he knew it his mind was destroying his body from sleep deprivation. The dark circles and the depthy bags under his eyes aged him. He yawned every three minutes and rubbed his eyes every two. Classes became hard to pay attention to and the late night studying became even harder. On the flip side, he became way more efficient at finding new time slots to fall asleep, and better yet, new ways to stay awake.

Hands shook

Avoiding every set of judging eyes that looked

So he stayed up late

Proving he could bring something to the slate.

Can't you see it behind his eyes?

Every day, hour, minute, something in him dies.

He didn't have the time to hurt or even pout

So he took to drugs to snuff these feelings out.

He tried his round, smoked, ingested, and shot up,

But nothing was as good as the cocaine that kept him up

Late, late in the night.

Cocaine helped him put up for another fight

So he ignored the runny nose, dilated pupils, loss of appetite

Because he was here, he had his life together, weaved tight.

So he kept using,

But his mind was bruising

So he got lost

His mind was tossed.

This child, not even grown. He couldn't drive, couldn't drink, couldn't vote,

He was lost in a fake stimulant to give him what he couldn't hope

There was a day

Sitting at his desk, he sat there to pray.

And the sun came up, and people with it.

But so did the pain that had him bit

So out with the mesmerizing, intriguing, and mind altering beauty.

And out with the clean cut lines that left him needy

This was the day he OD'd

And this was his last mindless deed.