Independence (James Rustic)

In a small, cement room with a little, frail cot
Where the polluted are exiled to whither and rot,
I awaken to nightmares in this cell of isolation,
Harshly struck with a sudden, urgent realization:

All the horrors I have caused have culminated to this event
To which my friends and family I must humbly repent,
And in the mirror, I reflect upon the acts that I commit
Which impale my intoxicated spirit and force me to admit:

I am dependent upon these chemicals that have become my vices
As I endlessly search for the promise of their Artificial Paradises,
Desperately seeking our diluted visions of a false utopia,
Found only as we succumb to this ignorant, imagined euphoria.