ascitiesburn101
12/18/06, 12:34 AM
It all started when he took a hit from the piece,
Inhaling every last inch of that fresh packed green,
Twas love at first puff, first huff, the boy could never get enough.
His fickle excuse was that he needed an escape,
A release from his daily routine of being clean.
The boy was afraid of living life to earn monetary success,
He had seen the hundreds of unhappy employees,
Their sanity mocked by the places they worked at.
He had never experienced life to excess.
So he asked a friend who asked a friend, you know how it is,
Could you hook this kid up with a bag of his own?
Somehow he received the package, less than he expected,
Made a homemade bong, before he realized it was gone.
A few weeks passed by, he was clean as a whistle,
Finished schoolwork, tests, got fed up with the lack of excitement,
His social life was dying like the little conscience he had left.
Time passed as fast as the joint he smoked weekly,
He never turned it down, opened up his soul to the culture.
Though they seldom saw their child, his grades were up,
The parents were oblivious, but they were happy for his sudden uplift in spirits.
He spent his time in the basement, glued to the computer, listening to music.
All day, Every day.
The times were changing as fast as his mood,
One night he crept upstairs to the medicine cabinet,
Found pharmaceutical gold, returned to his dungeon,
Crushed the four little white killers of pain,
He was breathing ignorance up the nose as he quickly insufflated,
Snorted 20 milligrams of bliss and fillers.
It kicked in faster than expected, skin buzzing with warmth,
Felt sick to the stomach, rushed out the door,
Only to spill out his guts on the floor.
He ran to the bathroom to finish it up.
Would've told his parents, but he was too doped up,
Explained to his parents he was plagued with a mere sickness.
Missed the next day of school, went out at night,
Got baked for the first time in nearly a week,
Didn't realize why he even bothered in the first place.
It didn't feel the same, didn't have that fulfilling quality,
He went home, thoroughly tired and drifted off into oblivion.
The next day felt worn out from the past nights ordeals,
Mentally and physically exhausted to the core,
He layed off the substances for nearly a week.
But he felt strangely weak, wondering when he would once again teak.
He finally ran out of everything, left with nothing,
No hook-ups, offers, and his grades were down the drain.
His bane of existance was gradually forgotten,
The acoustic guitar in the corner was neglected, and was boring while sober.
Had an all time low, came back up with speed.
Parachuted, insufflated, popped or plain chewed,
It gave him a rush, like nothing before it,
Twas the solution to his social issues, he was friendly while up,
But he couldn't fly forever, he had to come down,
Was angry and irritable, couldn't sleep at all.
The behavior increased, as did his excuses;
What's it today, need to have fun?
Told his friends a scaled down version of the problem,
They laughed at his testimony, called him ridiculous;
All he had to do was just take a little less.
Before he came down, he was soaring once more,
Who cares about consequences? he loved being content.
At long last, he admitted to himself what he was putting himself through,
The boy who thought he was a man, descended from his surreal land.
Christmas wasn't far away, yet his thoughts were stuck in autumn.
After sitting through church, he couldn't look at himself in the mirror.
His hobby was overrated, as he learned from his trials,
In the midst of puberty, yet more experienced than his elders,
The mind games are over, the illusions kaput.
He tells himself and his loved ones he's finished with this fucked up shit,
It was a horrible decision, nothing more, nothing less.
Four months ago he smoked that seemingly trivial bowl of weed.
The same immature boy is now high on speed, telling his story to the world.
Of a boy who had his fair share of ups and downs, highs and lows, smiles and frowns,
And is finally throwing things to the wind.
Writing down his thoughts on a piece of paper.
Years have passed in four months time,
As the boy who fell in love with false happiness drifts off to sleep,
He says, "Don't rush growth, It'll come on its own,"
"It's for the best, even if it doesn't seem to be true."
Though he would stop in an instant if he realized the consequences,
Of the ever-lasting abuse that would leave him senseless.
Inhaling every last inch of that fresh packed green,
Twas love at first puff, first huff, the boy could never get enough.
His fickle excuse was that he needed an escape,
A release from his daily routine of being clean.
The boy was afraid of living life to earn monetary success,
He had seen the hundreds of unhappy employees,
Their sanity mocked by the places they worked at.
He had never experienced life to excess.
So he asked a friend who asked a friend, you know how it is,
Could you hook this kid up with a bag of his own?
Somehow he received the package, less than he expected,
Made a homemade bong, before he realized it was gone.
A few weeks passed by, he was clean as a whistle,
Finished schoolwork, tests, got fed up with the lack of excitement,
His social life was dying like the little conscience he had left.
Time passed as fast as the joint he smoked weekly,
He never turned it down, opened up his soul to the culture.
Though they seldom saw their child, his grades were up,
The parents were oblivious, but they were happy for his sudden uplift in spirits.
He spent his time in the basement, glued to the computer, listening to music.
All day, Every day.
The times were changing as fast as his mood,
One night he crept upstairs to the medicine cabinet,
Found pharmaceutical gold, returned to his dungeon,
Crushed the four little white killers of pain,
He was breathing ignorance up the nose as he quickly insufflated,
Snorted 20 milligrams of bliss and fillers.
It kicked in faster than expected, skin buzzing with warmth,
Felt sick to the stomach, rushed out the door,
Only to spill out his guts on the floor.
He ran to the bathroom to finish it up.
Would've told his parents, but he was too doped up,
Explained to his parents he was plagued with a mere sickness.
Missed the next day of school, went out at night,
Got baked for the first time in nearly a week,
Didn't realize why he even bothered in the first place.
It didn't feel the same, didn't have that fulfilling quality,
He went home, thoroughly tired and drifted off into oblivion.
The next day felt worn out from the past nights ordeals,
Mentally and physically exhausted to the core,
He layed off the substances for nearly a week.
But he felt strangely weak, wondering when he would once again teak.
He finally ran out of everything, left with nothing,
No hook-ups, offers, and his grades were down the drain.
His bane of existance was gradually forgotten,
The acoustic guitar in the corner was neglected, and was boring while sober.
Had an all time low, came back up with speed.
Parachuted, insufflated, popped or plain chewed,
It gave him a rush, like nothing before it,
Twas the solution to his social issues, he was friendly while up,
But he couldn't fly forever, he had to come down,
Was angry and irritable, couldn't sleep at all.
The behavior increased, as did his excuses;
What's it today, need to have fun?
Told his friends a scaled down version of the problem,
They laughed at his testimony, called him ridiculous;
All he had to do was just take a little less.
Before he came down, he was soaring once more,
Who cares about consequences? he loved being content.
At long last, he admitted to himself what he was putting himself through,
The boy who thought he was a man, descended from his surreal land.
Christmas wasn't far away, yet his thoughts were stuck in autumn.
After sitting through church, he couldn't look at himself in the mirror.
His hobby was overrated, as he learned from his trials,
In the midst of puberty, yet more experienced than his elders,
The mind games are over, the illusions kaput.
He tells himself and his loved ones he's finished with this fucked up shit,
It was a horrible decision, nothing more, nothing less.
Four months ago he smoked that seemingly trivial bowl of weed.
The same immature boy is now high on speed, telling his story to the world.
Of a boy who had his fair share of ups and downs, highs and lows, smiles and frowns,
And is finally throwing things to the wind.
Writing down his thoughts on a piece of paper.
Years have passed in four months time,
As the boy who fell in love with false happiness drifts off to sleep,
He says, "Don't rush growth, It'll come on its own,"
"It's for the best, even if it doesn't seem to be true."
Though he would stop in an instant if he realized the consequences,
Of the ever-lasting abuse that would leave him senseless.