Train tracks
And people ogling at broken maps.
When glass hits the ground it shatters.
When you pick up that first needle,
First joint,
First cigar,
First bottle,
When you accept that heated touch,
And when the blade meets skin,
An addiction starts.
The last time you take action to ride that high,
Is it because a dooming death looms?
Or have you chosen sobriety?
There are so many choices,
Along with the non-stop of voices.
You were born in a broken home.
Seeking that high keeps the past in the present.
If you survive,
You’ll be left to pick up the broken glass,
Left to pick up yourself.
When you leave that broken house, you’ll build up a home for yourself.
And you’ll finally heal.
© ._.Lil._.