The smell of stale smoke lingers through our hair,
A staunch like presence,
but never fully there.
Yellow stained fingers,
and blood soaked knuckles..
hammy-downs that don’t fit quite right, awake critiquing ourselves late at night.
Hoping and preying not to become what we’re destined to be.
Drifting through the slums,
Seeking some kind of pleasure.
Friends and family succumbing to ice,
Melbourne’s national treasure.
Young souls corrupted,
so much potential forsaken.
One hit,
And it’s total annihilation.
