All these lives they walk the line <br />of crystal rose and china fine <br />and when the bells begin to ring <br />they kneel before their 12 ounce king <br />risen for whatever heist <br />when the itch has been crushed and sliced <br />leaving designs upon the passageways <br />ready and waiting up for days <br />nothing's important and nothing's a crime <br />when counting the grams of the sands of time <br />their bodies are tired and minds are shot <br />waiting for one of them to get caught <br />not a one knows what to do <br />or from right or wrong, false or true <br />their personalities are becoming cranky <br />as their fingertips are numb and shaky <br />their eyes are sinking far back in their head <br />each one resembling the walking dead <br />none of them will ever be stopped <br />until the last rail has been chopped <br />and there is no more to be bought <br />or until their brains start to rot<br /><br />Bridget Bush<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pretty-little-meth-heads-all-in-a-row/
