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This cigarette within my hand
Is full of black, black ink
It comforts me to understand
Why smoke helps me to think.
I don't smoke. Just comparing smoking to writing; addicting.
It's a jungle,
A real arms race.
Am a ******,
Addicted to its fast pace.
None can help,
With their own lives all are stuck.
Rot sitting on ****,
Coz no one else gives a duck.
Of my own I am a slave,
Misses me on road that truck.
My HP Poem #1017
©Atul Kaushal
I fell in love with a drug addict
I even bore his child
He sobered enough to kiss her cheek
and then left me, once again, in the wild

I fell in love with him for who he be
and this love left me feeling e'er so lone
when the drug wore off and he loved just me
I fell in love with his troubled own

I fell in love with the wrong sort of lad
One minute he's here yet the next is a blur
I feel so ashamed as my child cries "where's dad"
I don't know baby, he's probably with her

This man whom I love
he should not be a father, he should be kicked
the man whom I love is a disgrace of all others
I fell in love with a drug addict
This is for my parents . . .
It's an addiction but he can't admit
Yet that's the first step if he's to quit
my brother is addicted to gambling
it's eating his life away
And my mind is
right where
I left
These words were left behind on the nightstand of my deceased uncle, Carl Leigh Will. A lifetime of crippling alcoholism and major depression met him with his untimely demise, dead on the floor of a supermarket after one week of sobriety he'd achieved.

His linguistic brilliance rivaled even the beatniks - and yet, the talent died upon the birth of an addict.

Here is a piece of what otherwise, will never be.

Absorb it how you wish.
I traveled down that pathway
I leveled my demise
My nose was an express train
Aiming for the skies. . .

I headed towards the house of crust
I swallowed all that white
Disguised within a golden husk
I crumbled with delight

I lay the rabbit on the spot
I crushed it with my rock
Up the hole, into the brain
The rabbit goes to flock

I chase it deep within my mind
I’d play with it forever
It snakes and weaves around the line
My smile, the true endeavor.
Musings born betwixt the crux of addiction, and the shackles of Avoidant Personality Disorder; documented by the poster-child for both.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Cuts on my arms
And a pipe in your hand
Which, is worse?
My depression
your addiction.
You have a KID!
Oh, and I'm just a kid...
You give ME ****,
About MY scars;
While you're doing
   ****, in the next room?
And I thought I was ready to die...
But you've thrown your ******* life away.
I'm going through withdrawals. In the loneliness, creeping closer, how I feel you forgetting my face and my words and the way my love tasted. It leaves me shaking because they said I could do better and I've felt more alone than I ever felt with you, they told me I could do better and they think I'm fine because you're out of my system but I still feel you drifting through my life. I hear your voice in mundane words, I fold myself up trying to resist you because I can do better even though you're the best I've had and you're happy without me so who really won here? Am I happy filled with alcohol or any other drug? No. And you told me I wouldn't be. You were my sanity and you've moved on because I told you to but why would you listen to an addict? Why was I so easy to let go of? And I've avoided looking at you because you're so familiar to me and there's so much more to you than what I told people because I wanted the happiness to myself but I took my rage and ripped through you. I am the the artist of the masterpiece I've self entitled Destruction. I loved you like the needle vibrating my collarbone - my bones want to collapse on themselves and I fold myself up trying to keep it together wishing I could have even just the smallest of hits. I would never let you reject me again but when I want to **** myself you were my IV though people thought you were the pills. It never mattered how many times I said I loved you, because why would you listen to an addict?
Painting with memories.
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