The Junkie

Two hands reaching, grasping, for the needle on the floor,
Hoping for a single drop, to inject through swollen pores.
Forgotten family members, left in the wake of drugs,
Each one hurt in some way, by the relative they love.

Dirty gloves with fingers out, warmed around the fire,
Contained in rusty barrels, burning trash and stolen tires.
Sleep comes when it can, no matter where, just anyplace,
Long enough to rest and fix again, the junkie's race.

A crack house, dark and crowded, people laying on the floor,
Pipes and dirty needles passed around, somebody scored...
Empty eyes, empty stomachs, empty pockets for the high,
Once again the needle plunges, bringing bodies back to life.

Who is this Mothers' pride and joy, grown into a man,
A stranger, not the little boy, she held in those two hands.
When did deception wander in, right before her eyes,
And honest conversations, take a turn into his lies.

"The only thing that matters now, is scoring my next fix,
It's too late now to turn around, my world's consumed with this.
My life is spinning out of control, I know I'm going to die,
I'm running, I'm scared, I'm a junkie, And I'm going to go out, getting high..."




COPYRIGHT©2003 BONNIE TORRENTE