Blister-Packed Escapism

Escapism is sold in blister packs,

Capsules full of empty dreams.

I build a fantasy world from broken needles,

Bruised in worship of my

Hypodermic Jesus Christ.


Morphine emotions, eyes full of delusions,

This tablet-paved road is just the beginning

Of a start that never ends.

My heart explodes through open veins,

I'm running out of space to lose myself.


In a world of money, cold hard cash

Is equal only to cold hard drugs.

Is everything collapsing?

Or am I the only one falling apart?


The moon is a smouldering ball of white powder

That the marjiuanna weeds eclipsed.

It's getting darker...

(............I can't feel anymore..........)

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed