Addiction

It Gets Better - January 27, 2021

Folder: 
Chapter Three

It Gets Better

January 27, 2021

 

Several years have passed, but it feels like only days.

Everything in my life is foggy, nothing has changed

since I was younger and had more time to write.

I've grown into an adult, but nothing is all right.

 

I've hoped for so long that I could find a place

where I can be myself and not have to chase

validation and acceptance for the thoughts in my mind.

I've searched, I have, but there is nothing in sight.

 

I have love all around me, with my family and friends.

They assure me I'm safe, they'll be there 'til the end.

I don't doubt that, but they seem to misunderstand

that these problems I have are out of my hands.

 

It's three in the morning, I'm working at eight.

If I go to sleep now, I'll still probably be late.

I'll get through the day, pay the bills, go to bed,

just to have this cycle repeat itself again.

 

When the night gets darker and my mind is awake,

there is nothing I can do but hope I don't think

about the forks in the road- which one I'll take.

I could visit the skies above or pretend I'm ok.

 

The medications, the drugs, and the alcohol

have never helped me feel better at all.

The only thing that's stopped me from leaving forever

is telling myself at night, "I promise, it gets better."

 

It helps for a moment, but soon my mind persists

that it isn't true- it doesn't get better than this.

I have tried to change all the errors of my ways,

but to no avail. This may be the last of my days.

 

To everyone who loved me, to everyone that cared,

I don't want you to think that any of you shared

a part in this self-destructive game of my life.

In the end, everything will be all right.

 

Nothing will change in the world outside my own.

Everyone else will have a place they call home.

My only hope is that by relieving my pressure,

maybe for the others, it actually does get better.

What To Feel - January 31, 2018

Folder: 
Chapter Three

I don't know what to write

or what to say or what to feel.

I want help but I'm too afraid

to show anyone what is real with me.

 

I can't seem to bring myself to terms

with my thoughts of a different future.

I can't change what I am

but if I could, I don't know that I would.

 

I won't let you go, but it's what holding me back

I won't face what I have, it's control I don't have.

I won't stand up to her and say I don't need you

because you're the worst drug I've ever had.

 

Let me start over, I swear I'll do better.

Let me have some faith in myself, I might

sleep a night without the toxic thoughts.

Let me feel like I've done something right.

 

Only the drugs and the alcohol make me

forget where I am, make me forget that I need

them to float above the sea, stop from sinking and

remembering everything and start thinking

about the failure that has given up.

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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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