Fiending, her bodies screaming.
Her legs are shaking, her stomache's aching.
She's scratching, but the itch won't stop.
She needs drugs and won't settle for pot.
Her nose is hungry and her brain is sober.
Somethin new is beginning, her innocence is over.
One bag, two bags, three bags, four.
Her heart is slowing but she still wants more.
She's come close to the end end but doesn't seem to care.
Once you want to die, there's no reason to be scared.
Eyes blood shot and a little dry heaving.
She's cut up inside but at least she's not bleeding.
She can't find a balance, she's falling off the edge.
She just doesn't care as she tip toes off the ledge.
This is her calling, here's some confirmation.
She gets butterflies and hears self affirmations.
Give her a bag and a blade and she knows just what to do.
Her escape of choice may seem a little escue.
But with such depressing thoughts, it's bound to be expected.
Heroin, her love, she can never reject it.
 
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