Strung Out

I'm passed in an alley but the feeling doesn't hurt, I 
feel some kind of way because my pants don't 
match my shirt,

the tracks descend my arm to form a highway made 
of veins, I'd sell my soul for one more hit of you, 
addictive dame.

My clothing bears the stains of where I've shot you 
up for months, I'm not ashamed to say that you're the 
only thing I want,

or need in life for breathing right, I don't know what to 
do, 'cept tell the honest truth which is I'm strung out 
over you.

You hit my blood like nitrous ox, I feel it in my toes, it 
happens every time I go and sniff you up my nose,

or shoot you in my arm or neck, wherever needles 
plunge, that have me spittin Bubbles like The Wire, 
Season 1.

I know that I'm an addict but what else do you expect, 
the distance that I'm walking far exceeds a dozen 
steps,

I've stole my mama's jewels for you and cashed my 
cousin's check, to get enough of you to last but there 
was nothing left.

You've cast that hokus strokus now my brain is all 
amiss, I'm just a ghetto boy I guess my mind is 
playing tricks,

hallucinatin deja vu, for you I am a fiend, like 
Bushwick Bill punched concrete 90s weekend 
Halloween.

No need in getting clean, I couldn't handle the 
withdrawal, for methadone there's sex alone, I 
wanna get it on,

your cream invades my seams and seemingly the 
cost is small, the hours pass like minutes look at 
me, I've lost it all.

It's raining cats and dogs outside, this weather is a 
beast, I dig amongst the garbage just to find some 
food to eat,

but nourishment is last upon the list of treats I seek, 
you're 1st and foremost in my mouth of things I love 
to eat.

I'll prob'ly die inside this gutter but won't stop 
because, I've shot you up so much my hands are 
now like boxing gloves,

a dirty stinking junkie's what I am and what I was, 
another word for drugs oh yes, I'm strung out on your 
love.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2011

Poem

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