The Poet and the Junkie

Words inked on a
white sheet of paper:
I want to sniff into
my heart the word
love
and make liquid
strength
into my veins,
make balance
a shot in my brain.

But no, I can’t
seem to roll blunts
of happiness and
freedom:
the ashes are too
gray to be happy.

Perhaps if I wrote
“Reality”,
with a capital letter,
on paper acid,
I’d feel like I belong
Somewhere.

For now it’s just me
and the white sheet of paper.