Junk and Poetry

Oh, the mind of the druggie.
He who roams the brinks of insanity
Sloshing around in puddles of misery
Smiling at the passing birds
Of extinct philosophies.

Ha, those fucking druggies.
Walking around with nude heads
In the dead of the dark
Laughing at the hardened hearts
Floating into store windows and fading quickly.

And our eyes spin to the back of our heads.
And our hearts fail in our necks.
And our arms flail into your faces.
And your souls are rotting like our broken teeth.

But whatever that cookie says,
You still know she's not half as bad
As the addiction tracking your steps.

Run backwards so if you trip you'll
Crack your head.
Those scars on your arm, they spell out
Junk-like messages.
You'd figure, by now,
I'm fairly easy to read.

Those stupid fucking druggies.
Running around with their shrinking brains,
Their shriveled up lives and burning spoons
Just to die on your front porch with
A twenty in their nose, a needle in their arm
And a lulling sleepy tune in their slipping head.

Yeah, us bad-ass hardcore druggies.
With our nonsense bleeding eyes
Imploring for something other than this sobbing story
Where the ending line is another fix
And where the roses we receive are placed on a granite stone.