deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sunday Morning...
"Fuck." I say the word as a declaration to the sheet which serves as my wall. I'm sitting on my mattress, back against the wall, smoking a cigarette, wishing I had something to shoot up. Ma's got these pills that breakdown pretty good, there downers though.
Its Sunday so I cant even go to the pawnshop to sell anything for dope money, its snowing out, which makes retail theft on foot difficult, So I sit here smoking cigarettes and the last of my weed, cussing at the walls around me.
Tomorrow I'll steal my cousins paint gun and hawk it at the pawn shop, hopefully I can convince him Alicia must have done it when she was crashing here, maybe I'll pawn my electric guitar instead, I been playing acoustic more anyhow.
One things for sure, I'm a drug addict.
Its Sunday so I cant even go to the pawnshop to sell anything for dope money, its snowing out, which makes retail theft on foot difficult, So I sit here smoking cigarettes and the last of my weed, cussing at the walls around me.
Tomorrow I'll steal my cousins paint gun and hawk it at the pawn shop, hopefully I can convince him Alicia must have done it when she was crashing here, maybe I'll pawn my electric guitar instead, I been playing acoustic more anyhow.
One things for sure, I'm a drug addict.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 0
reading list entries 0
comments 3
reads 754
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.