By Nicholas Sawyer
Walking door to door never seems to get normal,
Your blood boils and mind wanders, “What could be behind that door?”
The act so innocent and the dress so informal,
But when you reach those steps, they can no longer ignore,
You ring the doorbell with shaking fingers,
As the door creaks open a figure appears, “Hi, I’m with VOA, can you talk? Are you sure?”
Your pitch begins with stats and scores, but that’s not what sells—that’s not what injures,
Then you take a stab like a grief struck singer,
Everyone has been affected, your brother, your cousin too?
Have you seen their lives fall out of view?
Addiction doesn’t discriminate like the touch of death,
All we can hope is to bring light of it, opioid to meth,
Well, can you spare a dollar? Or 20? Or more?
Or turn your back on them and shut the door,
Every cent matters when the light seems so dim,
And then you walk away as though you never met them,
Then comes the walk to the neighbor next door,
That walk your mind feels stuck in a quarrel,
Man, that walk never seems to get normal
Nicholas Sawyer is from New Hampshire and loves the outdoors! He is also a biotechnology major with interests in Genetic therapies and stem cell therapeutics.
