Silence interupted, we became side kicks,
sharing out troubles like a plate of chips.
Digging much deeper to an early grave,
you gave me the project to make you safe.
Your empty bottle of methadone sits in my bin,
my tea spoon is stained with your heroin.
Like those dirty needles sleazing in you bag,
is that my deal, used then scrapped.
I can’t understand a word you say
when you have pumped that junk into your veins,
bent crippled and death rattling on my bed.
Couldn’t you of just shaved your head instead,
or used a razor blade to take away the pain.
It is usually me who is the bigger mess
with this Pollock painting on my chest.
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