Pusher Poem

My pusher is so whimiscal,
he smiles at my disgrace,
and every time I close my eyes,
I see my pusher’s face.

I see his stubbly double-chin
and see his broken tooth.
I see his eyes a-twinklin’
 ‘cuz we both know the truth.

He’s got himself a cushy ride
upon my weakened back.
I feel my body split in two
THAT’S why they call it “crack!”

“Oh, happy happy happy me,”
is what I thought at first
but now the joy’s completely gone
and I know that I’m cursed.

If I’ve got money in my hand
my pusher’s always there
yet if I’m broke and desperate
you know he doesn’t care.

And so I borrow, beg and steal
to make it through the day
until I take that one last hit
and God takes me away.

Okay, I’m not a drug addict or anything.  As a matter of fact I’ve never even tried crack, nor do I intend to.  But I was thinking, the other day, about a website I came accross when my brother was a drug addict.  I was looking up things on crack-cocaine and I found this blog where a couple, who were crack addicts, were doing a diary on the state of their lives.  The woman wrote that her pusher just laughed at her because he knew that they would take whatever insults, etc. he dished out to them and still come back for more.  It was a desolate and tragic entry… well, it was a desolate and tragic diary.  It continues to haunt me and, although I am so grateful to God for what He did for my brother, I wonder if this couple are even still alive.