Addiction

Dripping in Gold

 

I took her hand

and poured gold in her veins.

There was nothing more I could do.

 

 

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Georgia

 

Georgia stole the drugs in the glovebox

and traded them for passage. I don't
remember Texas. I barely remember
you.



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The Cupcake is a Lie

 

 

There was a café at the end of the road

where the patio trickled onto the sidewalk

and umbrellas opened like snowdrop petals

allowing only splatters of sunlight to decorate the plates

placed in front of posied forks and clinking glasses.

At noon we sat with people sipping rosé

and nibbling the edges of pastries:

you with your cupcake, I with my

tart. Your mouth full of mischief, you spoke

with your hands to clear my head and

there was something like sweetness

on your fingers. Words sifted between your eyes and 

a token of my innocence saw the sun

when icing stuck to your bottom lip. 

I barely noticed the tremor in your fingers

when you raised your glass to toast the afternoon or

the acidic taste of the powder I wiped off your nose with my thumb.

 

 

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Poisoned

Folder: 
Torn Love

I only want what I cant have,

Like Im hooked on poison,

Youre like a drug Im addicted to,

Your smell,

Your touch,

Your power over me,

Things haunt me,

Its all about us,

You know I can keep secrets,

I know you can keep secrets too,

They never said we cant touch,

Just how close can we get?

Will she ever know?

They dont know,

Hold on tight on this ride,

You traded things,

Is that what happiness feels like for you?

I know you enjoy the danger,

Maybe not as much as me,

That spark is there in your eyes when I look,

I think youre scared of how it feels,

You might enjoy it,

If you lose yourself in the pleasure,

How will you come back from it?

Why do I get the feeling youre craving something youve never had?

I never crossed the line,

If we even have a line,

Tell me something,

How far can I push you?

How close can we get before you run?

You look at me with those eyes,

Knowing the power they have over me,

Youre beautiful,

Youre completely enchanting,

Youre the source of my addiction,

Your eyes,

Your lips,

Your smell,

Your touch,

Your body against mine,

Your breath on my neck,

The feel of you against my lips,

The feel of you against my hands,

The feeling of you responding.

 

Im addicted to you like Ive been poisoned and youre the cure.

The Mess You Left Behind

Folder: 
Poems.

Unsure how to process,

I am living on the edge of forgotteness,

While today, taking out the trash,

Nearly gave me whiplash,

To the past I found myself agazed,

Upon the rough, unforgettable haze,

Containing the choices you have made,

And how I just try my best to wade,

Through the pain,

That left a permanent stain,

And through the disappointment,

That took my enjoyment,

The person that lived in that room,

The one that lacked a broom,

That person was not you,

At least not the one I ever knew,

Having kept that aspect of you separate from my mind,

It was easier to have your role clearly be defined,

But now there's another person that's been along for the ride,

And it takes strength to learn to coincide.

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Shame comes with it...

I am an addict. My addiction is to tobacco. Not nicotine as much as the tobacco itself. Those vapor pens don't do it for me. They might ease the pains of the nicotine withdrawal but I find that it doesn't satisfy the taste. It's a horrible taste. Why would I want that? It's a strange thing. I believe my attachment has to do with the fact that I use them to sort of ground myself. This is absurd considering my knowledge that there are a whole lot of healthy ways one could do so. Maybe in my mind I have it as sharing in the suffering of the earth. Which I do suffer the earths pains. It happens in the visions that move through me. I don't know how to explain the kind of suffering that I experience. I am working to cleanse my spirit from past negative experiences. This is not an easy task. No, this is a diving deep within. And the funny thing about it is, I use my breath to do the cleanse. So why would I want to fog it all up again? Just after going through those visions.

 

As I lay down to do this breath-work meditation I am always amazed at it's movement of energy throughout my body. Yesterday as I breathed, my whole body started shaking from head to toe like uncontrollable shivers. I welcomed this experience as I could feel the light cleansing my spirit of the visions that were coming in. With this as the darker visions passed, wonderful things of childlike experience came into the scene. Even in my outside world as words spoken from the other room. “Do you remember carousels when you were a kid?” Yes. This was the kind of world we'd like to see.

One where there is magic and fairytale fun. Not all this homogenizing into some suit cut world of false profit and greed. No, can you imagine how fun it could be if we just brought joy to every scene?

 

Now of course, we know that there would be some suffering still. Because people get injured sometimes. What would a world be without injury? Scars. We all have them whether physical or emotional or spiritual. I have scars. Many of them. I've been trying to find the actual roots. It's just that roots are kinda similar to the top part of the tree. They branch out. So I keep digging down and around. Trying to cleanse each one and recognize how strong we became because we made it through the fight and we grew.

 

Now I know my addiction roots into childhood as I was a teenager when I made that choice to use tobacco. I used it, I believe, as a way to fit in. To be cool. Because at my younger years, in elementary school, I suffered shaming. We were poor. I was shy. They hurt my feelings, I would cry. We moved on to middle school. In a different town, I had a new chance. Here I started to make more friends but I still got bullied a few times. Once, a couple of girls followed me home and spit in my hair. I never did understand why. There was nothing I'd ever done or said to them to be mean. I think they did it to see if I'd stand up for myself. I don't think I did. I don't remember. Anyway, high school came. And one day we were hiding behind the library and somehow tobacco came into the scene. I don't recall whose idea it was. I just know, I did it. But I didn't inhale...

 

High school, I stood by the wall, with a cigarette in hand. I thought I was cool. With my hair teased up and my high heeled boots. I overheard some girls down the way saying something about me not inhaling and to watch. So in that moment I decided to prove them wrong. I inhaled and I didn't cough.

 

From then on, I was a smoker. Attached to them. My girlfriends and I used to call them gum. It was cheap. They were a buck ten. Doable for teenagers without jobs. If we had to, we would scrounge the floor in my friends messy bedroom for change when we ran out. Then we'd go to the store and pick up a new pack. I became a Marlboro light girl, with my jean jacket and a job riding a horse. Oh, I was cool.

 

So, okay, now we can see how I got attached to being cool, right? I suppose what I found, as I continued to be a smoker into adulthood, was that cigarettes are like an icebreaker to start talking to other people. Smokers find each other. Got a light? Any chance you could spare a cigarette? It's a huddle in the rain and there's only that one spot a person could smoke. I've had many interesting conversations with folks over a cigarette. But oh my, why? Why the attachment? I've had many a wonderful conversation with folks without a cigarette being the reason. And geez. Sometimes it's just embarrassing to be a smoker.

 

At this stage, I feel tobacco is a powerful substance and if I had known it's sacred medicine, perhaps I would not have misused it from such a young age. But I do not know if this is true either. As here I am, an adult, who had quit using tobacco for 8 years, who decided to dabble with them and slipped the slippery slope back in to her addiction. The stranger thing about this is that it was foreseen in visions.

 

So now, here, in this moment of writing this, I've written myself into wanting to indulge in tobacco. So I take the laptop outside so I can have one by my side. I am guilty. I know this is not healthy. But I'm allowing myself to do it anyway. Perhaps it's in anticipation of my final quitting. Tobacco spirit is very powerful.

 

My story gets weird.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

...to be continued

 

 This was a freewrite. Only spellchecked.

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I Manipulate By jfarrell

I Manipulate

By jfarrell

 

(“From the cover of Heaven’s gate, I manipulate” great lyrics from steve taylor)

 

Rasputin is me, I am Rasputin;

I tell you my story, show you my scars

I share my pain with you

And you will jump to my defence

Jump between me and the bullet

Take the sword thrust,

In my stead.

 

I frown and lower my gaze

I show you the pieces of my sundered heart

Let you hold and feel this dead thing that is my soul

Let you dance in the dust that was my dreams

And you give your heart to me

In tender whispers you pledge your undying love

To me.

 

Amongst tears, with nastiness running from my nose

I tell you of the wrongs done to me

I tell you of those that hurt and ridiculed me

To show the truth, the strength, of my pain

I take the knife and slash my arm, over and over

My pain angers you to kill,

For me.

 

Rasputin is me, I am Rasputin

A manipulative, conniving…. monk

Dead many years (executed, I think);

I want you to like me

I’ll say anything you wanna hear.

To keep you here

I manipulate

Author's Notes/Comments: 

this is about me, not christians.... just loved steve taylor's song "I Manipuate", great song, great title

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Other Side

your life isn't some jacket

that used to fit so well

when you live like that

your mind becomes your hell

and no angel

on your shoulder

can save you from its depth

and the demons

in your stomach

keep tying knots

to catch your neck

 

just stop.

 

there's no personal record

for you to wreck

your health is fading

eyes are closing

your heart's become a mess

and jesus

can't save you

(and neither can meth)

the only thing at the end

is a slow, personal death

you don't greet it like a friend

you fight it like a fiend

you wrote the story of your life

but it's got no theme

no meaning

(it's a bad portrayal

of yourself)

you couldn't see 'you'

clearly

you were way to busy

dealing

with the suffering

and agony

you brought upon yourself

you gathered it up and saved it

built an altar and you praised it

A religion built from grief

that you mostly fabricated

 

just stop.

 

you can't keep fighting wars

in a mind

that's been plagued with 'em

you can't keep breaking hearts

with a heart

that's not made for it

you think the story you write

is so great

but you got played for it

the truth is in your eyes:

you're dying for the game of it

 

it's just another lie 

that you wanna stay alive

you don't care

about yourself

whether you live or die

and that's hateful

god, it's just painful

to watch you beat yourself up

to call people to save you from it

from yourself

 

just stop!

 

you don't see the people

soldiering up to fight your war

you don't see clearly

how dearly they're paying for

all the mistakes you keep

agonizing over

it's shameful!

you're selfish and prone to drama

it's disdainful!

and the one's who love you

are willing to die

just to give you another day

where you can figure it out and try

just so you can make it out alive

smiling bright on the other side, like,

"I made it!"

you ingrate, that shit was paved for you

every loss of blood was a brick they laid for you

to build

a path across the void

(the one you cling to in your mind)

 

just stop

 

and you'll come out on the other side.

 

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tags:

The River

 

you thought you could get away

with all your grimy sins

perhaps you thought there's no god

perhaps you think there is

either way

it's a lone, cold fall

and the river is just a mouth

she opens wide

she's selling secrets inside

are you willing to pay the price?

 

put you back to the wall my brother

put your back to the wall my friend

put you face to the river

she opens wide to let you in

every damn day is a long damn day

but the river has no fears

whether she eats

today or tomorrow

or fasts for a hundred years

 

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