A Junkies Dream

I don't think that personal experience should ever limit a writer. In contrast, I think that writing can be limited by personal experience. I wanted to dip my toe in drug writing, but it's limited by my total lack of experience with drugs. The writing all around is weak (there is no getting around it, but if I only posted the perfect poems that I have written, the blog would be pretty empty). The ending needs a lot of work. You may have realized by now my style of writing. I like creating characters, and I like destroying them. Very few of my characters survive my writing.

On the street a junkie wait for his fix
His mind now playing tricks
He thinks he sees his dealer up the street
but it's only a mirage the drugs make him think

Soon the itching starts
clawing at his track marks
He craves a needle to break his skin
to make him whole again

His mind now filled with the sounds of reality
Again the pains of life he's beginning to see
Everything is becoming blindingly clear
and now returns the fear

What if he he has to face reality today?
What if the dealer never comes his way?
How is he going to take it
without any drugs to make it

all ok?
Apparitions appear
and innumerable voices he hears
He can no longer trust his senses

His perceptions, nothing more than a series of guesses.
I can see something
my dealer's coming
He will bring me hope

but nope
Just seomthing else he can see and hear
that when comes close, disappears
He's beginning to see friends long since lost

entering into his own personal holocaust
He begins to hit his head, forcefully against a concrete wall
to make it all
go away

reality makes no sound
now laying dead on the ground
from out of a gash on his head, the blood freely flows
soley because his dealer didn't show.