Rolling coolly between her trembling fingers
Lies a long glass pipe
Her disease is like a trigger
One that never clicks quite right

The pipe is still black and smoldering
Her right hand still holding the match
She is flying, but faltering
Trying to find that fading whisper,
That she can never catch

She can hear the distant laughter
Of a child she had grown to love
The quiet, whispering, chatter
But beyond this disease, nothing is enough

She fills her time with thoughts of flight
To rid herself of that drowning feeling
She finds her company with the night
To take what she needs by stealing

She calls her disease, an affliction
Wrong but not so far from truth
She suffers from real Addiction
That she feeds with substance abuse

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