The it upstairs
thinks it's God,
But it isn't.
Man or Woman,
It comes in a thousand genders.
It's only has one mind,
Its own pleasure,
The power of Now,
Well, that's what it's all about.
The cost,
Well, that's no problem.
It begs
It borrows
It steals
It pleads
It lies to you straight faced.
If you bleed,
When the consequences are paid,
It says, "Not me"
"We'll deal with it later"
"One more time"
"One more round"
"One more rodeo"
"One last time for the road."
It's pretty smug
most of the time,
Can't move your
arms or legs,
But whips up anxiety
if
you say, "No. "
It'll show you resistance is futile.
Though it only hangs
around
for little while,
It'll let you know.
It speaks to you
in the third person voice -
You deserve it
You need it
You've been so good.
It'll talk you into trances
strange self-destructive dances,
Twist you upside down,
Inside out.
It ain't God,
Somebody needs to talk to it soon,
Let it know,
These days of running the show
are numbered,
There's more to life than this slumber
Numbness has had its abundance,
Talk to it soon
While there's still time.
A whisper, though, says something different,
"How's about
one more
time. "
Dedicated to those in Recovery.
And those who say, "Not me, not yet. "