A Dream Derailed, after Langston Hughes

A Dream Derailed

I can’t remember what I wanted to be
if and when I ever grew up.
I can’t be sure something better
than addict and whore
ever even crossed my mind.

I get the truth, at twenty-five
that I can never get back
the childhood I gave away
or willingly sold, over and over again
for a few chunks of meth.

What happens to a dream forgotten?
Does it linger like exhaled smoke,
filling darkened corners of a melted mind,
then drifting slowly away
leaving only a craving for more?