Heroin /or/ Good Times Bad Times

actually a poem with the story

Don't get the wrong impression
addiction is multiple depression
there's no glory in it's possession
so then this is only a confession


A poem with a story:

Despite all the horrible things that transpired over the years
there still seem to be some memories that can bring a small 
chuckle to my soul. And so without much detail or grandiose
Here is the sad story of a motley crew who knew too much
way too soon.
As a junkie mornings can be the worst, unless it drags on to the 
afternoon, then that’s the worst. Waking up dope sick is indescribable. 
Now one particular morning in Gloucester seemed to be particularly awful.
We, that is our little band of junkies were all having a rough time scraping
up the cash to make our mad dash. Mostly we would head out to Lowell
since they had the best dope there and less chance of spending a long time
tryin’ to score. 
The snow had started early and was building in intensity. By the time
we had our cash it was almost a blizzard. We hit the road down 128 to the
interchange and headed north toward Lowell. It was now rush hour in the
afternoon, the worst time to get stuck in traffic with a car full of dope sick Junkies. 
Even worse it was snowing hard, we had no heat, and the wipers 
didn't work. what we had done was tie a string to them and I while driving
would pull the string my way and the passenger would then pull the string
his way. I mean the absurdity of such a sight must have been incredible to
those seeing us go by. And not just going by but flying at top speed down 
what we called the sick lane. This was really the breakdown lane, but at
times was needed when you were really sick. So the memory sticks in my
head and I get a small chuckle at the sight in my mind. The other thing that 
sticks in my mind is the faces of those in the car that day who died soon
after, from the effects of their/our/all of our/ addictions. Of the five
people in the car that day I only know of two still alive, the others having
succumbed to heroin and its desire to take and not give.
So if you saw us that day enjoy a short chuckle, I do too. But also
remember "they who went down to sea in ships" ships without rudder or
sail, from a small fishing town called Gloucester Ma...once the Fishing 
capital of this land, now the Heroin capital, and that old fisherman statue
that stands sentry at he harbor, has many names missing from it of brave
kind heroic men and women, who you may have thought were dregs. But
for family and friends who knew them and knew the truth of their troubles
they were just folks like me and in a way like you. God Bless America, and
God Bless Gloucester who lost many too soon.
https://youtu.be/frnUCIn1amQ
https://youtu.be/CyvCBgUOU98