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.