Addiction and Drug Abuse

By:Matt and Espi

Poems about Addiction and making bad choices in life.

My Last Pain

© Monica Joyce

Another spill down the drain,

one more pill to drown my pain.

Is it a cover up or a disguise

I don't think I'll ever stop and realize.

More hurt and dissatisfying tears.

One more bad picture, then I face my fears.

I'll always be scared deep down inside

But yet I still continue to deny.

I feel there is no one to turn to in my time of need.

So I light up a big one, and smoke some weed.

To me, my life is just one big joke.

A life of heroine, alcohol, not to mention coke.

These are substitutes to make me fly.

I feel I have nothing to worry about when I am high.

Some of the drugs hit so fast

Then I say to myself, "this will be the last".

But more pain and anger builds up in my heart.

I know what I need to numb my parts.

Suddenly I feel that high again.

I don't care who I hurt or the sin within.

I start thinking I just want to die.

There is no one who cares or questions why?

I decide to take that last shot once more.

Then I am gone, there is nothing to live for.

We Real Cool

by Gwendolyn Brooks



We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.


I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm,

And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame,

Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base

And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip

Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath,

The pull and the pump of it, and the paper's white

Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down

To the black crust of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink,

And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and the heart slow,

The push and wheeze of it, a sweep of plumes in the air

Like a shako of horses dragging a hearse through the late centennium,

London, at the end of December, in the dark and fog.

The Sleeper

At midnight, in the month of June,

I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,

And softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;

The lily lolls upon the wave;

Wrapping the fog about its breast,

The ruin moulders into rest;

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake

A conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not, for the world, awake.

All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies

Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs, from the tree-top,

Laughingly through the lattice drop—

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,

And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully—so fearfully—

Above the closed and fringéd lid

’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,

That, o’er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,

A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!

Strange, above all, thy length of tress,

And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy,

This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie

Forever with unopened eye,

While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!

Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold—

Some vault that oft hath flung its black

And wingéd pannels fluttering back,

Triumphant, o’er the crested palls

Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,

Against whose portals she hath thrown,

In childhood, many an idle stone—

Some tomb from out whose sounding door

She ne’er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!

It was the dead who groaned within.

Opium, a drug most believe Edgar Allan Poe to be addicted to has side effects like what is pictured here. it causes users to go into trances and long sleeps. What is described here resembles what a truly beautiful sunset seems to be like in his mind. The shadows and that seem to be jumping at him are the result of paranoia which a mixture of drugs and drink are amazing at giving. the last line symbolizes that he is making up the dead that frighten him and is believe

Frequently asked Questions

How many teens die a year from drug abuse? Over 1400 teens a year overdose on illegal drugs.