(no subject)
My heart is racing, my hands are shaking, I need another hit. I feel myself already being sucked in, but what do I do? ..Just one more sniff, please?
Each step I take is a new and very different feeling; unexplainable, uncomparable.
In the back of my mind, I know. I know that my pupils are probably dilated to the size of two small, glass marbles. I know that my foot is tapping impatiently against the wooden floor, and that when I speak, my words tumble out of me, falling clumsily over each other and losing their rightful meaning. I cannot control these impulses, and my mind is running too fast for my mouth. To anybody in their right mind (and how few of them there are), I must look really fucked up.
There is no grace. There is no class.
Where's the glamour that I've heard of? What's the fun in this? Do you like being jumpy and irritated?
Look over there! Focus over here! Get up, no, sit down. Do this, or rather, choose that.
I'm restless, indecisive, and maybe almost bitchy. But I feel myself beginning to feind
And for what? A tiny, ripped little baggie full of clumpy white powder that doesn't even make you feel that good. So little bit, and it costs so much. ( not necessarily speaking of money, either)
I could almost say that I don't like it. I could almost say that I don't want more.
"I'm through with this, I had my try and I'm done."
But a tiny little piece of me is still itching for more. More, more, more.
Coke, Snow, White, Blow, Powder, whatever. It's all the same, I feel myself becoming a slave to the cocaine.
Each step I take is a new and very different feeling; unexplainable, uncomparable.
In the back of my mind, I know. I know that my pupils are probably dilated to the size of two small, glass marbles. I know that my foot is tapping impatiently against the wooden floor, and that when I speak, my words tumble out of me, falling clumsily over each other and losing their rightful meaning. I cannot control these impulses, and my mind is running too fast for my mouth. To anybody in their right mind (and how few of them there are), I must look really fucked up.
There is no grace. There is no class.
Where's the glamour that I've heard of? What's the fun in this? Do you like being jumpy and irritated?
Look over there! Focus over here! Get up, no, sit down. Do this, or rather, choose that.
I'm restless, indecisive, and maybe almost bitchy. But I feel myself beginning to feind
And for what? A tiny, ripped little baggie full of clumpy white powder that doesn't even make you feel that good. So little bit, and it costs so much. ( not necessarily speaking of money, either)
I could almost say that I don't like it. I could almost say that I don't want more.
"I'm through with this, I had my try and I'm done."
But a tiny little piece of me is still itching for more. More, more, more.
Coke, Snow, White, Blow, Powder, whatever. It's all the same, I feel myself becoming a slave to the cocaine.