Inked.

I drink ink like stories read by
Critics waiting to review.

Splotch stains cover my lips,
As I exhale in the toxins.

Breathing each channel of
Inspiration created by travesties.

Nothing is ever normal about
Poetry written by an addict.

Particularly by one who knows
Not of what addiction means.

But only of what it can provide
In the moment, if only the hit tastes
As good as the writing consumed.

Wouldn’t that be something?