A moment in time with a prick
in the arm and a rush
of confusion and infusion.
Opiate racing through my
circulation. Its’ horrific
bliss with heroin’s kiss
My nose is itchy, and my tongue
is dry. Stomach retching.
Is this the high they spoke about
when sharing the wonders of poison
in brown, wrapped in paper looking for
citric mixed with dihydrogen oxide,
fused with radiation, convection and conduction?

I’m zoned out now from the moment and
life. It takes eleven years
to wake up from that prick.
A show of red in the beginning and the end.

©Stuart Patterson 2018

This poem is the result of homework set in my Creative Writing class. It had to be free verse and based on the moment of my first heroin injection.

I don’t want to say too much about the meaning as I like hearing how other people see…