Poem about dealer...

[charliegal]

Swim has lost her brain. Who the hell sits around writing poetry about her dealer? But he's human, doesn't want to do what he does. Swim is a dork probably for sharing this, but what the hell... she's messed up so like who cares at the moment?

scars of life he tries to hide
his face so sweet and kind
a heart that beats for one good chance
unforseen brilliance in his mind

humanity has cut his soul
wounds forever feed
anger screams beneath his flesh
demoralizing dreams

Swim thinks tomorrow she will wonder what the hell dealer cut her cola with....

[Nature Boy]

Travelling poet?
Travelling poet?
Travelling drug-dealer poet?
Looks a bit like David Bowie?
Travelling poet.
Wanna buy a poem?

Clean soap?
Clean soap?
He can promise us all eighths.
35 a quarter. (A bastard's quarter)
Six grams though because he's only making 2.50 profit off of these quarters.
He can't even buy a pint for that.
And he won't drink Fosters.
He drinks Buckfast.
From a brown paper bag.
You know that monks make it?

Not interested?
Purple Haze?
Big bag of purple haze?
He wants your number.
Run away quick.

"When you see the size of my quarters, you'll be kicking yourself mate.
You'll be gutted."