They called you shabby lady
Vile, troubled, violent.
Cocaine flowed freely, wildly
Bodies twisted, spent.
You pulled me to your bosom
Held me with iron grip
Till veins and brains
Were shattered
Body scarred by cruel whip
Today I've found my freedom
I do not walk your way
Today I laugh and frolic
And play
But in the night I wonder
When moon hits darkened strand
Oh cruel street and lover
Would you still hold my hand?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An honest, confessional poem about the 'iron grip' of addiction, ending in questioning.