Seven years ago,
that’s when the problems began.
I started self medicating,
with a Tennessee brand.

At the top I had it all,
married with two kids.
I was finally in six figures,
when the **** began to skid.

Love had grown cold,
and became an abyss.
A couple of drinks to ease the stress,
but I felt ice in every kiss.

It became a routine,
when you simply shut down.
The drinks helped me forget,
but they also helped me drown.

Then one day we were strangers,
who were sharing a life.
I didn’t recognize the woman,
who I had asked to be my wife.

Then came the eruption,
and the stones were cast.
The family tore apart,
and WE became past.

Fast forward a year,
and I’m being let go.
The company’s closing,
and I’ve nothing to show.

Then goes the house,
and the car that we owned.
Everything is stripped now,
and I’m down to the bone.

Self medication,
is what helps the pain.
You were cheating the whole time,
and now you’re with what’s his name.

Now the medication,
is what’s causing the pain.
I’m trying to stop,
but I’m stuck in this lane.

Self medication,
self destruction in disguise.
Hospital visits,
simply wanting to die.

Looking back now,
it was a nightmare it seems.
One I couldn’t wake from,
that still haunts my dreams.

I wasn’t an alcoholic,
I had a mental breakdown.
I used the alcohol,
so I could help myself drown.

It took a long time,
and I’m still healing slow.
But hell came to earth,
and I was part of the show.

So forgive yourself,
and try to move on.
Let go of that pain,
and realize that it’s gone.

If you’re trying to forget,
then you’re lying to yourself.
So do yourself a favor,
and put the bottle on the shelf.

"And said,
'Naked come I
Out of my mother's womb.
And naked shall I
Return thither:
The Lord gave,
And The Lord
Hath taken away;
Blessed be the
Name of The Lord."
Job 1:21
We used to go
To church as
A family,
Down at St. Mark's.
But when Mark died
He became my saint
God hath taken away,
And he gave me
A scar that could
Never heal.
So I left God
To find my way
Without any light.
I am self medicating,
So I can be numb
And be devoid of feeling
When I remember
What The Lord took
Away from me.
On the day I
Graduated and
Saw young men
With smiling fathers,
All I could hear were
The words I would
Never hear.
I'm proud of you, son.
So if I tell you
Not to take it for granted,
Forgive the envy
In my voice,
And the stains
On my cheeks.
I am self medicating,
So I can be numb
And be devoid of feeling
When I remember
What The Lord took
Away from me.
Forgive me for not
Being able to fix a car
Like your father showed you.
Because all I remember
Are the brief flashes
Of a man and his son
Fishing at the river.
By the time he died,
He smoked Marlboros
And used to drive
A ******* Pepsi truck,
Too young to give a ****.
Then a branch broke
And a family was devastated.
I am self medicating,
So I can be numb
And be devoid of feeling
When I remember
What The Lord took
Away from me.
I can't remember
The sound of his voice
And I can't feel the joy
Of having him say
How proud he is
Of what I have become,
Of the man he raised.
I am self medicating,
So I can be numb
And be devoid of feeling
When I remember
What The Lord took
Away from me.
So count your blessings
As I flush the pills
Because I'm fifteen
Fathoms deep, and counting
As I try to remember
The sound of his voice
And what The Lord took
Away from me.
If I thought
That there was
An afterlife where
I could meet him,
I would be flushing
My life instead of pills.
The Lord hath taken.

It's my version of self medicating that's the worst

I go down hill at full through an almost I finite tunnel of numbness
The melancholy sweeps over me paralyzing me I can't move.
I'm stuck in this rut.

Then the poison is the only way to make me feel alive again.

We all want to feel alive

We want that adrenalin

I'd **** for the rush, while risking myself

Then it happens, it's the all time high,
nothing can be better for a night
and then you're left with your head between your knees on the next train home with the over sized glasses  feeling like you've just survived a plane crash.

But it's my remedy

I become reckless to prove a point to myself
That I can do and be whoever I want

When I look back I call it idiotic and stupid and lie and say its a regret but it's really not

I put the facade of hate towards my actions
But really it was a thrill that is now etched in my veins.

So I slither back into reality until the next problem or coldness hits
and I'm back at square one

It's a fever I can't sweat out
They're becoming my roots
It already has a pattern

It's attempting to form a routine

In a far away forest there was a bear who felt very blue.
She simply could not snap out of it, and didn’t know what to do.
There was no reason for this sadness, her life was going well,
But at random times in every day, tears would start to swell
This feeling kind of scared her, but even more than that,
It made her feel embarrassed, like some sort of selfish brat
I don’t know why I’m like this, she constantly thought to herself.
I have no reason to feel this way, I have my legs, my sight, my health
There are bears in other places who have lost their homes to fires,
And baby bears in situations that are absolutely dire.
But these thoughts did not allieviate her internal pain,
In fact they only made it worse, topping sadness off with shame.
While she wanted to go talk to someone, to find out what was wrong
She settled for self-medicating, taking hits off of a ****
This helped her out a little bit, at least for a short while
But it was not a real fix, to say so was denial
So this went on for months and months, getting progressively worse,
And the bear learned to carry the weight of it, bending to this curse
She became her toughest critic, her own worst enemy
An ugly, unlovable idiot is what she thought herself to be.
I can’t tell you what happened to her, I simply do not know
Maybe she’s still out there somewhere, just putting on a show.

1
Shh…the rain cooed, calming the flood that rages
Still a concern…or was
Now placed upon the wetted soil
Transfigured, blessed in holy oils scented with cinnamon.
#2
I grasp at the compass that Donne reassured,
Tragic to find it etched in notes
Of the Song of Swans:
It may commune beneath a firmament of birds
Yet, it seems divided in this steely sky—the color of wrathful swords—
I sniff: it smells of cinnamon.
#3
I am drawn by the scented bliss, anointed in general
That is, with the rest,
But somehow, cologned, it’s too sweet, too new
Now a criminal to laws of ancient Hebrew.
To the iron clouds, the necks will bend,
To turn from he who smells of
Cinnamon
That is, with the rest.
#4
Yet, they do not smell
Nor peel back its bark lest it poison the oil
As rain poisons soil,
And ignore, as they do, when rain is to come,
The oil is fragranced evil with cinnamon.
#5
And though I complain, clack to the mud
It, too, smells of cinnamon,
And so we’re the same.
#6
“****” is my cry. “**** them to their hell,”
Burn the concrete buildings, tear away social offal
That, with some entreaty, seems to plague us all! Why so much Injustice?
Who are you? A God? What makes one lump of clay
A clod, the other a home? Upon the heads of refused beings
How do you stand so tall? You can’t lest your empire fails
While the seesaw of suffering hoist up the side of wails
And smoke the vital oxygen,
Scowls, the first impression
Worried not about advancing goals but living day to day,
The things that move metabolisms, world-wide, subject to pay,
Wasting our lives not in 9-to-5s but looking
And failing to find
And toting excess and praising their holders
While blaming the others born from behind
Partitions drawn in world wars started for oil
For money, for wealth, both so glutted and glutting pride a nation wide
While its cells are tinged with cancer,
Both sides of false dichotomy claiming they have the answer, to answer the question
Of recidivism, the poor and they are to live or get along, dangling the carrot so high
It goes above their dreams, and it’s so blurry that it’s hard to tell
What exactly one pursues,
Or race, religion,
Of a woman’s place in the is to see how absurd such a question should be,
Here is a question that seems appropriate: why are differences discouraged,
Who says what is better but the powers that be
Lenses shaped for us to see only those things specifically made
To make the made untouchable,
And they do it, and will not stop, we’re left with no hope
But from where pleasure is wrought: drugs and sedatives that
Blunt the mind that worries, sober, replacing them until they’re over
But without any solution; a bandage to a bandage
Since a sober mind that cognizes problems can’t possibly solve them in the same state
Of mind.
A lust for love with no genuine conception,
*******, deflowering with cold, stony hearts
Fostered in a day and age where manipulation is more inescapable means
And less insidious art,
So broken by our broken dreams and forced to walk without contention
Compromising on who we are
No struggle to help make us strong
A simple shrug to carry on,
While the most powerful blood, the fire in our veins is given, given, given
To those we think we love,
While we sit dreaming and falling in love with love
Always coddling the scars, where the blood and sinew were streaming
Until they are closed and pink, taut and empty like a drum
Still yearning to beat the same rhythm again,
Needing to learn before synchrony may happen
And two drums may beat to the other’s tune,
Feeling some pulse that holds us feet from decay
All the warmth and butterflies
Come in a zephyr smelling of fetid, carrion meat
That makes true affection
Feel like maggots in the skin
And we leave to new horizons, akin in their process:
Where they end, where they begin.
And yet we’re so weak in every regard, being the forge of our own fortress’ petard
Sade-masochists that run, run, run away
Feeling as though we’re cast to sea, waiting for the problem to deal with itself
A shining light house on a miserable horn
Hides by our back, the shore receding out, and even in the darkness
The vastness of the sea, there’s still the light cast ‘cross the sky
With the same, though fleeting, periodicity.
And I can do nothing, least, nothing of worth
Being as I am, a whiny little white boy with middle class struggles,
Well-fed, well-cared for, and some domestic unrest
But I am minor, mediocre at best,
And have never had the muscles, the mettle, put truly to the test.
So I can only complain beneath the anthill of my worries
And all my attempts to make any change are thwarted by my failings, my comfort
My life,
Doing drugs, self-medicating because it’s the best I can come up with
Spiraling beyond uncontrollable until it is no longer
Me whose spinning down to destruction,
That was something of the past
Now, I truly have nothing to grasp
And I kick and I scream and I try and I try and I try
But look in dismay at any hope I may have for people to change, yet their conduct belies
A sense or desire to be anointed enspiced
Since the general oil has seemed to suffice, and that’s not enough, but I just want some change
Some honesty, but I can’t find it, I know not what I feel
All this angst piling up, like a chapter in the life of Holden Caulfield:
He’s my ******* idol since I pressed with all this
Stupidity with no venue but complaints
And this is doing nothing, this ******* poetry, neither solving nor affording comfort
Back to me. It is art and no one cares
It has no voice, save the face-value point
And I want meaning, and so I try to make it knowing full well
The intention is demeaning, but not in my writing
Its filthy fingers touching on everything that I’d like to achieve
Legitimately, but it’s all conditioned
It’s breakdown is imminent  
If only I knew how accept
Oils scented with cinnamon.
I wish I was different, or acted upon it, instead of just ******* in the lines
Of a sonnet,
Or that others may smell of their own fragranced oils
Then trifles, then problems may seem something
Of little toil
But, but, but, where am I to go, where do I begin?
I’ve gone in circles, where I stopped I’ll start again
And I’ll never escape because…
#7
Shh…the rain cooed, calming the flood that rages
Still a concern…or was.
In due time the sun will do as it does:
Show us what is, is soon to be what was.
The nature of me, with little consistency, is grasping for a dawn
I see it coming up
Now that I’ve smelled the breeze
Of cinnamon.

All alone, mind lost,
No friends, just demons,
High sacrifice for low cost.

Sleepless nights, terror filled thoughts,
Unsteady heartbeat,
Unpure soul rots.

Crawling skin, fake bites,
Torn between two people,
Blind fought fights.

Gone to hell and back,
Medicating on *****
And low cost crack.

Her good person is herself,
With no memory of how she became,
She see's her, and grabs the lighter from the shelf.

Her evil person is Addict,
And is now in control,
And has just about had it.

One last dance, for old time's sake,
Absolutely no chance to live,
But a chance they take.

Dead heartbeat but shallow pulse,
Asleep like comatose,
Overdose.

look
ill drink and ill drink
until his hands no longer feel like his
and his face is him no more
i will feel him against me and i will grit my teeth
and shut my eyes and whisper to myself that it is you
ill keep drinking
until i open my eyes and its your eyes i see
he looks at me and he touches me
but i cannot feel the same
i want to be ok
but my insides are frozen
no amount of warmth from this stranger can melt the hurt you left in your wake
i trusted you
he wants me
i cant have you
so ill drink
and ill drink
until i cannot open my eyes
to see who is loving me now

Sleep, I've forgotten what that feels like.
Counting the minutes to each new sunrise
Whilst watching the days get shorter
Medicating the pain into the background

Eyes open, each movement screams awake
A thousand needles move under the skin
Weaving this tapestry of flesh and bone
An endless picture of what I've become

Shaking under the strain, the cracks appear
Small, too small to notice darkness creeping
Eroding the wall that holds back the dog
Waiting to charge, waiting to bite

Weeks pass as moments when the pain fades
But like an unwanted guest, refuses to leave
Reminding me that this is not over
Invading my dreams and crushing my will

a poem a day
keeps the therapist away.

We’ve accepted that we’re already dead.

Like the soldier
Like the victim
No, the veteran of love
(and subsequent heartbreak)
We’ve accepted we’re already dead
So we can keep on living.

I was broken.
No longer working
No longer dreaming
No longer wanting
Pushing away
The hands that tried to help me
The encounters that didn’t last broke me.
I was embattled.
In the trenches of my own existence.

Those we met
Under picture-perfect circumstances
When we thought utopia could be real
woefully disproved this theory.
Rude awakening to what agony feels like

And sleeping all day so we could self-medicate
all night.
Self-medicating with ***** and cigarettes
Not because we needed to but
For respite
For the moment
For a friend in the bottle
Or the lighter.

Life is war
Survival is the only option
Death, inevitable and imminent

We are the ones in the ring
We have lived here
We will die here.

There are those who are weak
Succumbing to the needles
The tap tap tap on veins
Or worse
Ordinariness
Boring as the 8x11’s
found in printers
All around the world.

I will not be ordinary.
Surrender is not an option.
Because I am a gladiator
I have adapted.
I’m still in the ring
But I will defend myself now.
They are the lions;
The king of their race
But I
I am a gladiator in a Gap V-Neck Tee shirt.
I will die with love in my heart,
Belief in my soul
My ashes will spell out the word Hope.

Nothing will break me ever again.