Crack.

Crack.

I wrote this poem after hearing that a young girl I used to chat with after depositing money in the bank had died of a drug overdose. One time I visited the bank to cash the cheques from my furniture business, and this girl would come up to me and ask me if I wanted her business, meaning that she was a hooker and wanted money in exchange for sex to buy either heroin or crack cocaine or both; sad but true.                                      

                                                                            crack

Walking down the street one day, happy as can be, as I got on my way.

I saw a young girl stood in the cold, with paling skin, scruffy shoes; she had nothing to lose.

Why did I look? Why did I stare? Something inside told me to care.

She gave me that look that would stay in my head; she was crying inside; she needed a doctor, she needed a home, she needed a bed.

I said hello, and she replied, "Do you want my business," I told her, "Goodbye."

As I turned and walked away, I thought of the money she needed that day.

She needed the money to get her supply, so she could stand on a street corner smoking crack to get high.