The Drugs

And in the end
calculations are made,
money is counted,
worth is decided.

Options have to be weighed,
"Quit the drugs
or I'm leaving you"
Another plate breaks.

The drugs, they are
expensive.
So is she.

She makes me feel,
the way I want to feel.
And so do they.

In the end,
I know she's the only
reason I exist.

And they only reason
they do, too.

My Time

The poetry is gone.
I can't say I miss it;
it was a burden too heavy.

But there was a time,
however short, when someone
choose me to narrate the world.

I crafted the ink
upon the page in such a way
that everything seemed right.

Perhaps every poet has
their time. I only wish
I had more of mine.

The death of Poetry

They have carefully
slit my skin with razors,
and dipped me into salted water.
I do not scream.

They have removed my skin,
exposed my raw muscle,
and thrown me onto the concrete.
I do not weep.

I do not refuse the meeting.
I cannot hurt concrete.
It is cold, hard, and dead.
I do not feel.

They have created my ideas,
corrected my purpose,
deadlined the muse.
I do not think.

The poetry is dead.
They are vendors,
And I create their good.
My veins will be your IV.