Jack and Jill, a poem

Jack and Jill

Went up the hill

Needles clutched in hand

They both got high

Jill gave a sigh

As the euphoria began

 

They sank deep down

Dropped to the ground

While inside they touched the sky

Not a worry, not a care

No deep despair

No need to ever ask why

 

Jack once had dreamed

How good life seemed

When hope was in his heart

But the dream was dead

The noise grew in his head

And escape was easy to start

 

Jack passed out

Jill flailed about

And wondered what to do

She needed on hit more

So she still could soar

And when the needle bit, she flew

 

Jack faded, then died

Jill finally tried

But she couldn’t stand to stay

One more wasted life

Couldn’t handle the strife

So now it’s thrown away

 

Copyright 2018, Kat Micari

 

This poem was inspired by an incident in the parking lot at work yesterday – 4 teens were shooting heroin in their car. A client told me about it, and I called the police, but I’m not sure what happened afterward. It’s such a huge problem in our area now, as it is everywhere else in the country. Very easily avoidable too… just stop the shipments coming in. But someone somewhere is making lots of money off of it, pretty high up the food chain, so that’s not likely to happen.

I grieve for the wasted potential, for the dimming of their possibilities, for all the lives affected. It’s so sad.

Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Death and Fighting Our Personal Demons

I don’t normally post when a celebrity dies. It always has struck me as rather crass, as though certain human beings have more value just because they are in the public eye. But I couldn’t go without posting this time. Beyond the sadness for his wife and children, left to pick up the messy pieces he left behind; beyond the sense of something missed, knowing there will never be another character brought to life by him; I just feel sorry. Here is a man who has fought his personal demons and lost.

I know a lot of very talented, very creative people, and regardless of the level of skill or raw talent or stage of success they are at, they (and I) seem to tow a very fine line of managing personal demons. The price you pay for being an artist, and thus moving both deeper in and floating above regular life? Maybe. But I fear for some of the people I know, because I can see the intensity building. And I can’t help but think – what if I didn’t have music and dance growing up? What if I never loved reading and wasn’t able to hide in other worlds when my own mind got too intense? What if I didn’t have my affinity for animals and my love of water to soothe me? What if I had never developed my group of friends who are closer than family and we didn’t have each other to turn to when we experience the long, dark tea time of the soul (yes, a Douglas Adams reference)? What if I wasn’t so overwhelmingly stubborn and determined?

In the end, we all make our own choices, but the choices aren’t always easy ones to make.  And sometimes the weapons we choose to battle our demons end up destroying us instead of making us stronger.