The warm liquer floods my brain.
I am dull, warm, wrapped in a woolen blanket
whose soft fuzz distracts me from the world around.
I am happy. Not because of the whiskey, but because i'm in
my safety blanket with friends.
Then it happens. The blanket is torn to shreds. I see
a flurry of fists. Yells and shouts coming from
horrible creatures. They are soul less. For them there
is only one, and that is them. Cash is king they say.
Like a mantra it sticks in their heads and fuels
their actions. Cash is king say the zombies,
mindlessly hurting each other. For the green.
Currency that will pay for more drugs, to quench their
desire. Just some more and I will be ok.
One more smoke,
one more pill,
one more and I'll be good.
But the good never comes. They feel nothing.
I feel void. I am them and they are me.
But I am not them. I fight against selling my soul.
I think I have spirit. No matter how little or meaningless
it is. It is there. Like the last thing out of pandora's box.
It gives hope that people can change.