She was still a feen.
The drugs ran through her veins,
They gave her a pale face.
It made her feel i n f i n i t e ,
She could never get enough of it.
Let me tell you a story,
I just hope it won't make you feel sorry.
A little girl played in her room,
Her innocence was just part of her beauty before it went to doom.
The toys in her hands represented her parents at the end of the day:
Drunk, useless, and gray.
Tears ran down her face,
She wished, at such a young age, to be in a deep sleep full of haze.
Tucked in her chest and wrapped by her arm,
The toys stayed treasured and out of harm.
You see, she had no one to find comfort in,
Her parents were too busy swallowing each other up with insults, being too mean.
As she grew up, her toys wore out:
Colors faded, limbs broke off, and her parents followed the same route.
Soon the toys were put away and long forgotten, forgotten,
T i c - T o c . Ti c -T oc . T i c - T o c .
Time passed, her heart hardened, and her parents never noticed.
Bottles were thrown across the room,
At the end of the day it was just her, broken glass, and a broom.
Sniff, Sniff, Sniff.
It wasn't from her tears, but from the little white powder that brought her relief.
Her new toys did not consist of such productions:
Colorful parts, pretty rainbows, nor shiny buttons.
It was now the usual pot, blow, or pop,
That she found a comfort in, so it happened nonstop.
Three years later she's still feening for her next fix,
Because now her mind is playing tricks.
Sometimes it's nice to play with toys,
But not, not when all these toys are ripping through your insides, and it enjoys while it destroys.