Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

All the people I encounter do drugs

Ash tumbles off the end
Of a long, thin cigarette.
Fingernails smell of
Dried blood and dirt.
Infection swells the
Skin and oozes the wound.
The smoke curls and
Teases the appetite.
Slits across the wrist.
Images of abortion
Jester's one to a comfortable
Darkness that fits
Two sizes too big.
All the comfort to swim in.
Soul is becoming
The color of glazed-over
Eyes, the edges of which
Are bleeding sentiment at
The same sob stories
That have different characters.
It keeps the memories fresh,
Tupperware fresh.
The irony of escape,
Caving in, mind colliding
With heart and stab
Wounds that pus.
Why wasn't the ending
Better written?

June 25, 2007

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All the people I encounter do drugs

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