This is Your Life. A Poem About the Inevitable Cycle of a Meth User & Maker

This is your life, it’s so fucking intense;
it doesn’t really matter, it doesn’t make sense.

Your mom and dad told you about the birds and the bees.
Do a fat blast and I’ll show you the feds in the trees.

Whether you snort it, shoot it, or suck a glass dick;
it doesn’t matter, it’s just fucking sick.

In your house you will stay, your friends you’ll avoid;
you’re a spun fucking monkey; straight paranoid.

Forget who you were. You’ll become a thief and a crook.
Then the best idea ever! You learn how to cook.

‘Till one day, when you’re home minding the store.
The feds come and kick in the door.

Bum-rushed and slammed on your chest;
don’t move you fucking maggot, you’re under arrest.

Now you’re in court with a public pretender;
you would be better off with your dick in a blender.

The judge says, “No deal son”, it’s twenty to life.
And your best friend is home, fucking your wife.