Poetry

Hydromorphone:

I'll bet you didn't know, your thoughts are scrawled in pencil on paper.

A tiny person has a room in your head, scribbling always on a sheet as long as your life.

Constant scratching of lead on pulp. It is actually audible.

I just couldn't hear it until I'd been without it.

Now it drives me mad.

Meditation can be a cheap eraser, trying to keep up with the little hand.

Dilaudid knocks the bugger out cold in one injection.

I miss that quiet.

A Fool Full of Fears:

He's in trouble again,

and they always ask why.

He may start to begin

with an empty reply,

but they'll cut him off

with hands over ears.

Now here come the scoffs.

He's a fool full of fears.

Incomplete:

I love solitude

My own company is sweet

But is painted blue

By a pitiful longing

Sitting in that empty chair