Writing without the drug

is like breathing without lungs,

like drowning as fingertips go numb,

reaching for a ledge to scrawl myself upon.

 

Unable to grasp a pen,

PJ offers me sanctuary in her songs.

I curl myself up softly in them now and

            again and again I look towards the exit

            and again and again find the hallways blocked by martyrs of myself

            who again and again find excuses to turn me round to face it in mania

            for the revolution of purity.

 

Salvation is an ugly pursuit.

I want a smoke. Humanity is a beast.

She is hungry, and that hunger is monstrous.

 

This isn’t ready for publication but I’ll let them know,

A little bit about it anyhow,

My soul was always for sale.

Addiction makes whores of us all.

 

Writer's Note: This is a very dark poem so I thought that I would add a little disclaimer here that I'm not in a bad way or anything, this is simply a poem about the nature of addiction and the efforts and realizations it can take to break any bad habit. Sometimes trying to get away from an addiction can instill a sense of anxiety or mania in someone. That is the place I'm trying to access and explore in writing this. Thanks for reading.