An author of imaginative imaginations presenting this form of drug in its rawest form,
Retreating back to that dark room with my eyes closed sprawled upon the floor,
Furniture broken,
Windows shattered and one lamp illuminating the room,
Injecting a pen into my arm,
Feeling the ink temporarily amend my open wounds.

Thunder joins the symphony with the light tapping of rain on the window pane,
Isn’t it a shame to so openly expose you to my minds beautiful pain.

Bittersweet to get over the rough times,
Living through each line.

Eventually the line will end and the brain begins to quake uncontrollably,
Just like a prey that was caught by the snake, but Poetry, Oh Poetry! Has not released me yet.

The quick fix is not over,
Usually one only writes less than 9 to get over, the feeling,
It feels too good so I continue to write,
It’s overwhelmingly warm but frigidly just right.

Eyes begin to race around the room,
As I know I am quickly to meet my doom,
Because this poem has passed 9 and this line will be the last one I recite,
As my eyes close for the last time, I have overdosed, and even the doctors don’t know why.

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