That was nine and now it is noon, fucking drag of the day not sure of how long to wait.

An itch sets in just after lunch, so I smoke and hope for an easy daytime dream, but I hear a whisper, pressure for sure, suddenly everything points to the streets.

All I can do is think about that lump in my pocket, slim little fucking baggie that never seems to be as big as my needs.

It will grow smaller by the hour, half in fact, time and size as well, no matter how much is spent.

Will want to tell my friends about these goodies I have, but I am scared for that moment and it's not yet mine to call the end.

Will cost too much for that refill and eventually everyone comes in fury, frisking my ass, and inquiring about the status of my bills.

It makes me sick hiding from the world. I will sneak around and mask my condition, hiding and taking sniffs from shit that kills.

Will forget to say I love you in bed. Will forgot to brush the teeth in my head.

Will smoke a hundred cigs during that stint, dissolve some faith, break love rules, will want some more and finally to be dead.

Not sure when the dream began just asking for God to watch my family and make sure one of those little baggies doesn't slip into my pants again.