WHAT THE DEALER DIDN'T TELL YOU ABOUT HEROIN

That somehow you have to reason through the insanity
of punching needles into veins
so that a plastic plunger can push
waves of ecstasy into your bloodstream.

That it will make your eyes smile,
make them glisten and roll,
and everything you desire will be replaced
by the opiate illusion of peace.

That deep down you know you are killing yourself,
nodding off unconscious for hours,
sweating away the remainder of your rejected innocence.

That you eventually cannot speak through the bliss,
and if you do unknowingly mumble an ex-lover’s name,
you realize you could never want her
as much as you want another fix. 

That it will make you feel immortal,
and right after each injection
you will feel blasphemously close to being God himself.
That you are, for those moments, a light-bearing angel,
son of the morning, the brightest star in the sky,
before you are quickly cast down to hell.

Adrian S. Potter works, writes, and dies a little each day in Minnesota.  He's been published in many literary journals, magazines, and websites..   His first book, a poetic memoir called "My Own Brand of Blues", is forthcoming through RockWay Press.  Additional propaganda can be found at http://adrianspotter.squarespace.com/.