"#0000" text="#0000ff" Painkillers
by marabou22

He was all punk
He was fear spunk
He was all pain done.

She called it cell death
From pink pills
In mind cells.

He stood with the tightest frame.
When he spoke, his face scrunched and stretched
Like that of a willing apprentice.
His powders burned eyes, noses and skins.

“Why can’t I be his powder drug?” she asked me.
“Because,” I said. “Powders burn skins.
And you can’t be a pill, because most pills
Become bitter when left on the tongue to long.”

But she would shoot into him like a sting, needle form.
Travel his blood stream as if it was the longest
And most unsailed river on earth.
“I’d survive,” she’d insisted.
“Blood is oxygenated!”

But she would be his poison.
And what a poor poor whore of a way to die.
By a drug encrusted whore?!
Ludicrous!!!

As ludicrous as the students who wear the shirts
Of colleges they will never be accepted to.
As if a shirt is a ticket!!!
Ludicrous and I’ll be cruel.

And though it is true
That an OD means to die under pleasure,
She said, “I’d hate you as a friend, and kill you as a love.”
It was all pain done.

She wanted to be his painkiller.