She leans on the wall, under a pillow,
  with yet another ciggarette inbetween her frail, shaking fingers.
She looks like a mess, and she'd confess, she's had one too many beers tonight.
  She's shivering and jittery, she forgot about the pills on the floor.
She needs some help, but whenever she yelps, she is ignored.
  Her apartment is a train wreck, she's running out of matches and lighter fluid.
She needs someone, something to get her off this treacherous drug, this bug that has infected her.
  She's addicted, inflicted by pain. She can't find any gain.
Her rent money is late, she was high on a date, and taken in by the police.
  She's found her release of pain and she's ridden of suffering.
But yet she still sucks on her thin ciggarette, and sniffs up that powder, and drinks till she yells a bit louder.