A poem my roomie found:
THE NEED FOR SPEED
by Joseph R Frost
We're sick of being tired, we all want to get wired.
We just want to tweak, and stay up for a week.
The lights are always on, we are constantly awake,
we go to people's houses, ot see what we can take.
We scrub our carpets with a brush, our floors with a rag,
we clean our house for hours, then chase down the bag.
We're paranoid and schitze, but not afraid of death,
scandalous and dishonest, but loyal to our Meth.
At times we are confused, we can't seem to understand,
what's happened to our lives, why we're the outcast of the land.
At times we act so crazy, people think we are insane,
irrational thoughts are frequently, running through our brain.
What a high it is, for those of us who deal,
slinging all the cutter, so we can do the real.
We come up fast, we make money by the scores,
everyone's our friend, we're surrounded by bag whores.
We all end up in prison, wondering how this hole was dug,
we blame it on society, cause we're loyal to our drug.
While in prison, we build or bodies and improve our stature,
we get out on parole, and again go manufacture.
We don't care about our health, we're not worried about going back,
we don't care about our lives, cause we're loyal to the sack.
So here I sit in prison, unable to get high,
I take it like a man, it's no time for me to cry
Soon i'll be back out, and tempted by the Meth,
I'll have to be much stronger, or be loyal till my death.