Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
He thought of running through the fields. Free like a newborn. Nothing feels better than the rush of the wildflowers against his naked legs. The sun shining down on the travelling being. It was warm, joyous, even. Like a first kiss or a new high.
Sitting there, needle in arm, he felt free. Odd, since now he’s a prisoner. The junk is his girl now, the high is his lover, and the needle is his wife.
His mother, his God, all forgotten now. All that matters was the rush, the false sense of joy, and the absence of pain.
The beauty of a drug, of being numb, that was his path, and now he found himself on it. Travelling faster than he thought he ever could. Of course, you don’t realize your speed until you hit something…
Soon, he’ll find himself lost, wandering like a child. On this path, alone, all he had now was a fixed amount of cash and a dirty needle. I guess that’s all he needs to imprison himself.
Freedom? No, prison. Life? Only death now. The task of losing all that he had was barreling faster through all that he cared about.
His muse? Deadened.
His art? Wasted.
Just another junky. But in ignorant bliss, there is no rationalization. Only destruction of the soul, of the mind. But most important of all, his life was teetering on the edge, waiting for that push to send him falling from the fields of wildflowers into the pit of dark desperation and despair.
No longer running, just falling like rain, like hail. He falls until he hits bottom. Rock bottom.
------------------
Still post-rockin' in a free world
Sitting there, needle in arm, he felt free. Odd, since now he’s a prisoner. The junk is his girl now, the high is his lover, and the needle is his wife.
His mother, his God, all forgotten now. All that matters was the rush, the false sense of joy, and the absence of pain.
The beauty of a drug, of being numb, that was his path, and now he found himself on it. Travelling faster than he thought he ever could. Of course, you don’t realize your speed until you hit something…
Soon, he’ll find himself lost, wandering like a child. On this path, alone, all he had now was a fixed amount of cash and a dirty needle. I guess that’s all he needs to imprison himself.
Freedom? No, prison. Life? Only death now. The task of losing all that he had was barreling faster through all that he cared about.
His muse? Deadened.
His art? Wasted.
Just another junky. But in ignorant bliss, there is no rationalization. Only destruction of the soul, of the mind. But most important of all, his life was teetering on the edge, waiting for that push to send him falling from the fields of wildflowers into the pit of dark desperation and despair.
No longer running, just falling like rain, like hail. He falls until he hits bottom. Rock bottom.
------------------
Still post-rockin' in a free world
