syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
You know all those little aches and pains in your chest, your heart, and your liver?
You know how you’ve ignored them for years?
All those times you couldn’t catch your breath.
Or speak without gasps of uncertainty?
Those days where you shit and piss blood.
Compressing hit after silky hit of rock into your lungs.
Chasing collapsed veins.
Packs of Reds.
Forced venom into every orifice and organ.
Gallons of whiskey ripping and tearing the lining of your stomach.
Numbering more than you care to remember?
Over and over, day after day, again and again.
Remember that?
Yeah well, add it all up, squeeze it all together, and cram it all into about thirty seconds of your wasted life.
The pain and breathlessness that was already plaguing your latest four or five day binge takes an express elevator to Dante’s eighth circle of hell even before you can remove the blistering pipe from your chapped lips.
You have endued countless broken bones.
Torn muscles and beatings no one should walk away from.
Overdoses, alcohol poisoning.
Emotional wounds that rival Elizabeth’s sad fate.
Nothing could prepare you for the pain of your left ventricle closing off the blood and oxygen to your very real, very damaged heart.
Panic sets in immediately. Smoke trailing from your mouth and nostrils you watch your hands frantically search the glass coffee table in front of you. Bottles break. Powder, pipes and pills too numerous to count scatter around your living room. Your brand new uptown apartment already looks as if a drug bomb has recently been detonated. You watch your hands scramble for a cell phone as your left arm becomes entirely useless. Although the pain and helplessness is unforgiving there is a certain amount of comfort that washes over you as the room begins to dim and you willing close your tired eyes.
You come to in that familiar room of bleached white sheets and the smell of antiseptic.
Sterilization invading completely.
Mom crying.
Sister looking pissed and bored, brothers nowhere to be seen.
Flowers and gift baskets filling the room with well wishes.
Later the Doctors would tell you privately that you suffered a cocaine induced heart attack. Your second in the past two years. You try and joke with the well meaning gentlemen, but soon the gravity of his words and gestures, along with the inevitable dope sickness begin to make you wish that last hit had done the job. You nod in the right places and politely wait until he is finished then ask how soon you can check yourself out.
You know how you’ve ignored them for years?
All those times you couldn’t catch your breath.
Or speak without gasps of uncertainty?
Those days where you shit and piss blood.
Compressing hit after silky hit of rock into your lungs.
Chasing collapsed veins.
Packs of Reds.
Forced venom into every orifice and organ.
Gallons of whiskey ripping and tearing the lining of your stomach.
Numbering more than you care to remember?
Over and over, day after day, again and again.
Remember that?
Yeah well, add it all up, squeeze it all together, and cram it all into about thirty seconds of your wasted life.
The pain and breathlessness that was already plaguing your latest four or five day binge takes an express elevator to Dante’s eighth circle of hell even before you can remove the blistering pipe from your chapped lips.
You have endued countless broken bones.
Torn muscles and beatings no one should walk away from.
Overdoses, alcohol poisoning.
Emotional wounds that rival Elizabeth’s sad fate.
Nothing could prepare you for the pain of your left ventricle closing off the blood and oxygen to your very real, very damaged heart.
Panic sets in immediately. Smoke trailing from your mouth and nostrils you watch your hands frantically search the glass coffee table in front of you. Bottles break. Powder, pipes and pills too numerous to count scatter around your living room. Your brand new uptown apartment already looks as if a drug bomb has recently been detonated. You watch your hands scramble for a cell phone as your left arm becomes entirely useless. Although the pain and helplessness is unforgiving there is a certain amount of comfort that washes over you as the room begins to dim and you willing close your tired eyes.
You come to in that familiar room of bleached white sheets and the smell of antiseptic.
Sterilization invading completely.
Mom crying.
Sister looking pissed and bored, brothers nowhere to be seen.
Flowers and gift baskets filling the room with well wishes.
Later the Doctors would tell you privately that you suffered a cocaine induced heart attack. Your second in the past two years. You try and joke with the well meaning gentlemen, but soon the gravity of his words and gestures, along with the inevitable dope sickness begin to make you wish that last hit had done the job. You nod in the right places and politely wait until he is finished then ask how soon you can check yourself out.
coincidentally, i was listening to 
