I turn once more to the page
In a desperate attempt to heal
a visitor scarce,
I have become.

And if you're in a pain like mine
I hope God heals you

And as I write, the feeling is lifted. The curse is broken. The spell rendered useless. I am free I am light I am calm.

I should see a therapist,
But for now this blank slate shall hold my concerns.
For now this blank page shall soothe me.

Like a gushing river
With Momentum built up
The emotions exit me hurriedly
An ******* of sentiments
Messy and uncontrolled
Buried feelings
Closed emotions
Aloneness, sadness and trauma

Writing is the instrument that allows me to spill my feelings rather than my blood. Or others.
Writing is a tool for us loners
To cope.
Its our therapist.
Oh how I missed writing.

A woman said to me
"you must have lots of girls"
"what about your hoes"
Upon examination of my device
Its only mama in my contacts

Oh you were under an illusion
My confidence? Its a mask.
My humour? It's a covering.
I have to present myself in a certain way,
How could i expose the truth

The illusion stands, I'm not who you think i am.
I am both a superior catch and an inferior male.

I long for something so simple
Something people take for granted
Something you see everyday
In the road or in a shop
Something so obvious that
People who have it don't realise

You thought the opposite of addiction was
Sobriety?
No
The opposite of addiction
Is
Human connection.

My mind is retreating
From the busy world
Tendrils of consciousness
Stung from rejection

Searching for the little pleasures
To keep me going
Tears on my pillowcase
Whenever i wake up
Unsure and unfocused
I drift like a wood on the ocean

Far away from the shores of love and connection
I have become an island
Unable to connect with the landmass
I float away.