The pusher makes his way inside a room.  A life.  A crawlspace of a tempted mind.  His presence,  a twister,  pulling money from possesions of wounded souls.  Weakness of the user releases worth into his grasp.  Cash for painlessness.  Friendship hides from the deal.  Business is not pleasure.  Tension.  Deceit.  Upset him and loose life's blood.  He's pressure,  a junkie raising clones to follow his habit.  The victem chooses to be his desciple,  falling deeper and deeper into his debt,  so if need be he might do you a favor  (the biggest bag of todays flavor?).
      The soul of the buyer is clouded by lucid pleasure.  The Devil in a powder one will lie to obtain.  Conscience dwindles as the veins need surrounds every thought.  Nodding out becomes usual,  and friends,  so close,  seem to live in a world the high hand finds out of reach.  Relations come only from other pin point eyes all isolated in addictions livingroom.  Fear looses meaning when desire and a fixes relief take the stage.  The one act play so trite it's taken for granted.  What was before is an illusion.  Ironically false comfort is reality.
   To quit is to burn.
   Burn so ashes can live.