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Morphine
She only knows her four walls Blank stares and empty eyes Brilliant mind and nothing around to fill it with. Stuck in this city with no people Just wish life were that simple Just the same as everyone; A doll, A mannequin, A statistic. She’s a marionette with her strings pulled in every direction. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t mind (If I was that statistic) ‘Cause, at the moment, I don’t think(ever) That she cares that she is just another Product-of-a-broken-home-out-of-control-teenaged-psycho. And she was pushed to her breaking point But couldn’t find the strength to push back. The sad thing about her story? She. Never. Will. Let’s feed the addiction. Her liquid addiction, prescribed By her (fallen)angel in (bloodstained)white. Who makes sure her “lucid” days Never stay. That way. There’s no tattling on the good doctor ‘Cause.
He bent her too far Before he saw the damage he’d done. Then did it some more for the fun ‘Cause broken homes don’t appear on their own. And if walls could talk What a tale they would weave. Of Bloody Nights And Drunken Fights And a father’s lesson of tough love. Of scared little girls With corkscrew curls. And groups of little boys Used as vicious toys Then thrown away without a care. But statistics Can’t feel pain. Phantom aches from phantom days And migraines that never take hold. Just watch the morphine drip Drip, drip through the IV line (only way to count the pass of time)
For Lexis
The psych ward isn’t fun anymore. ‘Cause the doctors still don’t care. And the only way to save your life Is to tell them that You’re not fine. Let’s feed the addiction. Her liquid addiction, prescribed By her (fallen)angel in (bloodstained)white. Who makes sure her “lucid” days Never stay. That way. There’s no tattling on the good doctor ‘Cause. Mom pays her bills on her back And he takes his fill Then goes back to his new toy. The statistic. Not even a blip on the radar Observed by society. As she falls from grace The Beautiful Bloody Angel With no innocence left to save.
Corkscrew curls Battered little girls. Rivers of Red Sluggish and glowing No blue left to prove nobility. Faith lost to a collection Of figures, statistics An army of mannequins Forcing her to face the facts You. Are. Alone. And they will never care. Advances just rejected So, Let’s feed the addiction. Her liquid addiction, prescribed By her (fallen)angel in (bloodstained)white. Who makes sure her “lucid” days Never stay.
