My Cocaine
My arm’s bleeding
Blood dripping on the floor
I’m weeping
I double check if I closed the damn door
My mother thinks I’m sleeping
So, I better start cleaning
I can’t miss a drop, or she’ll start screaming
Oh hell, my arm’s sore
It’s heating
It’s steaming
The cut is so fresh, it’s pleasing
It hurts, but at least… I’m feeling…
I feel I’m healing
Or am I kneeling to the demon
I sit back and start dreaming
Today was a good day!
I got to class and finished my essay
I met my friends and went to a café
All my struggles sailed away
Who the hell am I kidding!
If I’m okay, why is this poem written?
Why am I willing to give up?
Why my mind’s corrupt?
Hell! My arm’s itching
Ugh, I’m just bit-ching!
What the hell I’ll do will these damn wounds?
Will they become obvious scars?
Will people laugh at my tears?
Oh hell, my arm’s bleeding again
Hell, the sheets are stained
I’ll clean this thing
This cut soothed my pain
This cut messed my brain
This cut drove me insane
This cut is… my cocaine.
Copyright © Heath Gebreek | Year Posted 2019
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