I heard on the radio one day that a nineteen year old girl had been found dead in one of the city's public toilets. It was suspected that she had died from a drug overdose.

The thought of this poor unfortunate girl stayed with me and this is the poem about her and sadly, many like her.

The 19 Year Old

You were the apple of your father's eye, as you bounced upon his knee. You should have stayed his little girl, for all of eternity. He used to tell you tales, of how he'd fly you to the moon. But the time for bedtime stories, was over and all too soon. Sadly, you did not grow together, in fact, you grew apart, as you slowly tore the chunks, out of his soft but hardening heart. And then came the inevitable, the day of the biggest fight, too proud not to pack your bags, you disappeared into the night. So you headed for the city lights, attracted by the paves of gold, but someone so sweet and young, is easy prey for the sour and old. The pimp he had a charming smile, and did numbers with your head, he offered you an easy way, to have a roof and a bed. He also showed you a pinch of snow. "Go on, just a little up the nose". But he knew the well trodden track, where that one sniff eventually goes. So you were injecting before you knew it, and doing what had to be done, taking more than a dozen every night, to earn the magical one. But today you were given a hit, and didn't know it was so pure, and now he'll be disappointed, he's lost such an easy score. And as you lay there dying, in a stinking Kings Cross loo, who do we blame for your death ? And then what should we do ? There's the not so humble grower, who nurtures the deadly flowers, while the Mr. Bigs just get bigger, safe in their corrupted towers. These are the real bastards, they must have sold their soul, pedaling misery in our streets, as they play the devil's role. Let's not blame the politicians, they can't all be ignorant mugs, but why do they preach reform, but are too scared to legalize drugs ? But these words are too late, for others and especially you, as you lay there dying, in that stinking Kings Cross loo. Your final thought was of your Daddy, and flying with him to the moon, and I just wish this wasn't the story, of the needle and the silvery spoon.

Copyright www.agiftofpoetry.co.uk 2008

Allen Jesson

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