Poetry
Day #159
Some of those in our dorm were going through their own private hell. I guess each of us had thoughts and feelings we never expressed. When issues weren’t discuss they manifested themselves many time through nightmares. The Lord put the following poem on my heart and my pen by the Lord one night after I was awakened by a certain inmate screaming in her sleep. After this was repeated for several night I found out that only one person in the dorm knew what made her nightmares so horrific. I happened to stumble upon that inmate and they confided in me. While she was on the streets she would sell her children to the dopeman to cover her habit.
My feelings of rage over how a mother could do such a thing began to obsess all my thoughts. When I asked the Lord for some understanding and some peace with this, He let me know, “Now you are beginning to see the gambit of degradation that drugs can bring into a person’s life. Use it.”
I started to despise this illusive dopeman as I began to wonder just what God had in store for someone that issued nothing but heartache, pain, destruction and death; all for a profit.
HEY, MISTER DOPEMAN
Hey Mister Dopeman
How are you today?
No, I don’t want to buy anything
I’ve just got something to say.
I’ve just spent some time
With several of your friends.
I use that term lightly,
Considering how they met their ends.
That young pregnant girl
You dealt to the other day.
Had her child this morning.
But it won’t make it, the doctors say.
That tender boy of fifteen
You “gave” your samples to,
Robbed and killed a man last night,
So he could buy more from you.
A once attractive blonde woman,
You’ve been dealing to for years,
Slashed her wrist the other day
After looking in the mirror through her tears.
The mother of three you saw,
Who was depressed over a letter,
Has left her children alone on earth.
She figured a little was good, a lot was better.
You deal in pain and destruction,
Those are your primal wares.
And you sell it under the pretense,
Of relieving all their cares.
I came to see your little sister.
She tried the stuff that belonged to you.
She couldn’t hear all the “no’s” you said,
She was too busy watching what you do.
Like so many of your other victims
I was there for her last breath.
In case I failed to introduce myself
I’m called the “Angel of Death.”
One day when it’s your turn,
And I shall come for you,
God will look at all you’ve sent me.
He’s the One you’ll answer to.
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Tracey, such a moving poem. You have given us an insight into what can happen to those who use drugs. Thank you, and I pray that this poem may fall into the hands of someone who may be considering using drugs in time to be a deterrent. Thank you, Thomas
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