The Cycle Of Addicton
Welcome to meth...slaps the pretty right out of you!
A Poem About Meth Addiction
Meth’s Wrath
Life in this big mental hospital really sucks.
Warped souls wander about lost.
On the lookout for anyone down on their luck.
Taking everything no matter what the cost.
As they pass through eyes dart about.
Staying long enough to feed their habit.
Talking fast trying to relieve your doubt.
Once done taking off into the night like rabbits.
The keepers chase them with shiny lights.
At the ready to chill their heels.
Snared they lock them up tight.
The lucky ones get good deals.
Once inside the keepers have the only keys.
Dictating every move they make.
The snared have little game under eyes that see.
Still they manage to find things to take.
No rest for the warped souls mind.
Counting the days till they hear "roll up".
Knowing they don't have far to go for their kind.
Many wait to help them fill their cup.
Take heed and stay alert in their path.
Nothing can change the monkey on their back.
For you see I speak of meth’s wrath.
Those caught by her care only about a sack.
Written by Becky Jo Gibson September 2006 ©
Beat up, ripped, tattered...
Reality about addiction
The Retched Mind
I take each moment as it comes ripping through.
Holding on to my sanity becomes harder with each tear.
Reeling my mind comes and goes with each passing view.
Peeking through squinted eyes I work not to give into my fear.
Only sheer will holds my pain and anger inside.
Trapped in a space that sees no one gets no light.
Spilling over into the darkness that is where I hide.
Watching hoping believing someone will do me right.
Each time I come out and move around the scene.
I see the old meet the new expecting them to be kind.
Despite countless disappointments my hope stays keen.
Faith that good can live among the retched mind.
When can I begin to open the closed doors to me?
Is the world really so warped and are all so tainted?
Why do people creep around hurting maiming completely?
I am hopeful for some good not the sainted.
Nothing reaches inside their cold hearts.
They take even those things that really matter.
The first line hit fix is where the need starts.
Leaving all in it's wake beat up, ripped, tattered.
Written by Becky Jo Gibson August, 26 2006 ©
