PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Inverse relationship for diminishing returns

on big investments in crack cocaine.

 

For each expenditure

of untold dollars,

she obtain an ever shrinking

imaginary benefits with a compounded deficit,

on a five minute high.

 

The Government provides crack pipes,

and money for the addict’s many highs;

with holding hands

of social policy

for the public good.

 

To weave a sarcastic social fabric,

and mend the gaping tears

in our lasting living sheets.

 

The dealer pushes the crack

mixed with this and that;

whatever they got

or want to concoct.

 

With the long arm of the law

the police smashes the glass sticks.

Maybe even arrest a few

for unlawful use

or illegal drug deals,

unless done in

“HARM REDUCTION” sanctuaries.

 

Check the centre’s policies,

on Police entry.

 

Friends provide the peer pressure,

the encouragement,

as continuous whispering

demon voices in her pretty little ear.

 

What an unbreakable synergy

working in marvelous harmony

for the common good

of our fragile community.

 

Byway of accumulation

or differential summation,

life fleys her body;

governed by the decay power function.

While there is an exponential increase

in hidden cost

to the burning of our own cross.

 

A mosaic of communal organic tapestry,

stitched together with fragile living treads

of bonds and trust,

being slowly eaten

by narcotic worms.

 

With her flesh sizzling,

her soul and spirit frying,

in merciless fires, heat, and lies.

 

Burning up in inhalations,

then exhalations

of puffs of crack smoke.

 

Grab the “HARM REDUCTION” instruments,

insert the solid cocaine stone,

then ignite the rock

like a dying red sun

at the end of it’s life’s journey,

into dazzling pops and crackles

like the fourth of july.

 

Like playful puppies,

jumping and frolicking all about

with great exhilaration in anticipation

of being fed their mother’s warm milk.

 

She takes one puff

of the real stuff.

Her eyes roll back

in her shrunken skull.

 

Her muscles continuously twitch and scream

like break dancers on the big screens,

or sirens hollowing on the ocean breeze.

 

Her muscle spasm,

as though she is in

of multiple organismic trance.

 

Or like the last gasp of living breath

from a stuck bloodletting hog,

expelling it last vestige of life giving fluids,

and driving it’s cold body into convulsions.

 

The damaged neurons

scattered through the vast expanse

of the nervous system.

JUST DON’T SEEM TO FIRE RIGHT!

 

Bastardization and degradation

of bio-chemical-electrical transmissions,

sins against one’s own flesh.

 

She is trapped

like a fidgeting rat,

trotting back and forth

on the path of life’s journey without

a meaning

a purpose

a place for being.

 

Other than to be used,

and be consumed

or to devour on the hour.

Almighty God,

where has all the hope gone.

 

Crack has caught

another big blissful fish

with curved barbed hollowed hooks;

 

that continually sucks her blood

as it slowly works its way

deeper and deeper into poisoned flesh.

 

To wither her spirit,

to dry up her soul,

and continue to siphon her very life

till all that remains is brittle bones.

 

She become easily prone

to suggestions

or suggestive conditioning.

 

Mesmerized like pavlovian dogs,

to salivate,

to rob,

to steel,

to be an irrational hoodlum.

 

Or even worse!

 

To bow down low

on her knees and toes

as though she carries a curse.

 

Without the whimper of a scream.

Surrendering...

Submitting...

Selling holy things

that should never be sold.

 

Pleasuring for bad money

that cannot even buy old clothes.

 

To sell her precious essence,

barter her personal treasures,

man or woman it makes no difference.

 

For she have entered the inescapable world

of teasing psychotic visions,

titillatingly beautiful

and seem so real.

 

Where she chase a fleeting dream

of fire breathing dragons.

She will never catch,

but hope to sack.

 

As the blinking fireflies

with their beacon of hope

in innocent dreams

hasen to leave

the vile realm

she has chosen to lead.

 

Until the Grim Reaper recycles her life,

and comes calling her living soul.

Which was given in good-faith,

in an act of trust and confidence

on an expired timely lone.

 

For the life we carry

is not our own.

 

Leaving a world of damage

and heart aches.

Her tsunami of destruction,

caused by a quick burning flame.

 

Tries to cast an illusion of control,

for an out of control wildfire of cocaine

feeding off her brain,

chopping up the circuits of her mind

to make her insane.

 

The many little demons from the

stenching

stagnant

heavy

thick

malodor

emanating from

hell’s glass cylinder door.

 

Attaching to her blood,

and inserting themselves

into chosen parts of her id

to suckle on her thoughts

like minions of starving leeches.

 

To assault

twist,

and even squeeze out

every last drop of dripping pain

to reap the real gains

of crack cocaine.

 

Causing her to surrender to madness,

and the selling of her four beloved babies,

on a dirty one way track,

around the corner at the back,

and next to the garbage dumpster

for crack.

 

The mirage of the utopia she first believe,

disappear like billions of night stars

vanishing with the reality

of a coming dawn.

 

The endless black board screams

behind her purgatory viel

seem so surreal

in this dystopian field

 

But,

her hell just started!

 

To begin her holy-war,

she declared on herself,

and expect to win

while singing

“THE CONQUEROR’S VICTORY SONG.”

 

On her personal jihad,

with her own guilty right hand,

she takes her bloody grinning head,

held aloft in mocking conquest

of herself.

 

Slumbering sleeper,

you better awake!

Your time is already come and gone!

 

Leegal Poet

 

Wayne Ferron . All rights reserved @ copyright