The Drug of You


The Drug of You

If poetry had a taste,
it’d taste like you;
sweet and sour,
but still sticky like glue
And if you were a pill for popping,
you’d be blue;
because you bring me up,
and let me down used, not abused
I’d get a prescription for
60 MG of I don’t hate you,
and stay limp,
staring like a statue
But you can’t be any of those;
yours is from a needle not meant for tattoos,
and mine is sold in bars
from 11 am ‘til 2
And on street corners,
bought with I.O.U.’s;
writing poems;
being dealt a deuce;
you, me, and drug abuse

 

© 2012 Volatalistic Phil, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story

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