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Lee Aaun Mar 26
a song created by them
that makes you addicted,
shall i name it love?
if love has a name
Dee Feb 2
Creamy deliciousness,
Entraps my taste buds,
Coating my mouth,
With each morsel,
Of sweet nectar,
One bite is never enough.
Chinedu Dike Jan 2020
In an errant venture in curiosity -
lured from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid onset of 
a buzzing sensation - The Rush;  
emanating from deep inside him,  
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria thru cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure
waves flushing over the tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, eyeballs 
rolling back from absolute bliss;  
he savours the calm explosions of
the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a dazed stupor—
ushering him into 'wellbeing'
in a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the narcotic.
And begins to relish its sweet fruition,  
in a seemly pattern of use put in 
the shade by his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that in time gives 
way to his nightly soaring and drifting,
in an illusionary paradise of forgetting
where nothing hurts anymore.

In a bit by bit build up of tolerance to 
the ******, he grows quite a craving 
for it: needing higher doses time and 
again to sustain the desired effect. 

Seemingly oblivious to its lethal effect
on the pleasure centre of his brain,
that is being hijacked and taken captive 
by the illicit psychoactive substance.

A hostage position that interferes 
with the interior reality of his mind.
All at once he wants to 'use'!
He begins to look forward to using.

At times he'd skip work chasing the dragon:  
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels 
of his initial high - in a vicious cycle of
ebbs and flows of mediocre and ecstasy.

Always, he'd end up with a crash below
baseline - barely able to cater for his
basic needs. The habit, no longer
is the fun that it was intended to be.

The potent drug appears to offer reliefs 
not justified by external realities;
the more he indulges, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside his control.

It is this corrupted impulse-control which
causes his sick obsession with the opioid,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts—a chronic brain disorder!  

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the mood-altering drug:
ahead of his job, his goals, family, love,  
friends, hobbies, personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are not spared.
He could be ill, he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,  
the sedative has kindled in him an
inner turmoil - setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was 
to find: his relentless attempts to regain
sobriety are negated by anxiety and sickly 
'comedowns' that intensify with severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the stimulant's induced
changes in the chemistry of his brain's
system of reward and punishment.

They're the karmic outcomes initiated by
an upswing in his body's tolerance to the
******: galling side effects that rise and
fall subject to drug levels in the system.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
due to the untainted glee offered, has
turned against him, very often coercing
him into using for the avoidance of pain.

The mind-blower as dear and painful to
him as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction:
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
poisons into his spine, and he doesn't
know whether he's coming or going.

Every day he keeps on promising himself:
'I'll stop using for good after this last time.'
But that remains to be seen - as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stunned those 
acquainted with him; he lost his job,  
sold his car, and was evicted from 
a home that had been stripped bare.

The drug has evoked a negative ripple
felt throughout all that he's part of.
An awful realization that settles in with
cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
that has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing, he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he could muster -
driven by a remorse to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone.

A facade that is soon razed by his urgent
need for the ****** merely to feel 'normal'.
With a huge burden of guilt he wanders
astray in the haze of his own misery.

In his besotting passion for the narcotic,
he'd go to any means to fuel the habit: 
he'd cheat, steal, lie or betray even the 
ones who care about him to get his 'fix'.

Like spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him - chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent targets for theft his family
have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations where they've to
sleep with their wallets under the pillows.

Jewellery, gadgets, or any other easy
to carry household valuables that is
not safely locked away will go missing.
For days at a time he too will vanish.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into several rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. That notwithstanding, a powerful
urge to use continues to feed the habit
each time he's released from therapy.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son who had always had his act together;

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned recluse
with a baffled demeanour - who buries
his head in low self-esteem to conceal
glassy, bloodshot eyes from eyecontacts.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit their little or no influence over the
ravages of the highly stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings along with compassion
for him have completely been exhausted,
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:  
To get his life in order or be kicked out!  
Coldly, they watch him leave.

Among the ranks of homeless the ****** 
would wake up feeling sick, and spend his 
day struggling to find ways to relieve the 
incessant strain of an insatiable craving.

On rare lucky nights he'd sleep on friends'
couches, otherwise the rough sleeper
crashes wherever there's shelter, never
worrying about waking up the next day. 

A hellish existence on the streets that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's pitilessly mobbed in inhumane ways.

Broken, sick, starving; the erstwhile ray of
hope who once had much going for him,
presently, he's a nervous wreck envisaging 
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Far beyond his ability to ask for help, 
loved ones proceed to rescue him. 
Under the demeaning load of drug
dependence he staggers into a rehab.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance to
submit to a slow and delicate therapy on 
his brain, whose structure and functions 

are badly impaired due to a long-term use
of the toxic substance. In a daunting slog,
he'll have to learn to care for a body
that now ought to work differently.

Desiring to put their lives back together,
in the guiding light of structured help
many drug addicts have been able to
crawl their ways out of the dark abyss. 

Amongst them are 'walking corpses' who
possessed by their 'enough is enough',
are able to find the inner fire needed to
rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the split from a vital lifeline
that'd kept him afloat in a chaotic reality.

As a relief of all anxieties coupled with
it's inducement of a state of illusory bliss,
the ****** has been the only companion
he could count on to cheer him up.

That being so, he's unable to justify why
he ought to be sober, when in such times
he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that's of no help.

In the face of the hell he's been thru,
all the things that are dear to him plus
the very essence of life on the line, he's
left persuaded that giving up the habit

will amount to a never-ending gloom
for the rest of his already sad existence.
Over and above all other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's unable to quit.

But alas, something's amiss! Broken is
that inner spirit wherein lay his will
and the ability to choose. Hence, he
has no recourse to a willpower whose

changeful potency is forcibly enfeebled.
Yet, as intense as the strain of the drug
may be, it's nonetheless transient and
would dissipate in the fullness of time.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

But even so, much as he desires to jump
the rehab process, he's bitterly pitted
against the horrors of street life that loom
upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices,
he slips into a mortal dread of relapse. 
In anguish withdrawals torment him daily,
and they won't let him be for a second.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control.

In a fit of extreme anxiety the raging 
desire propels him to the threshold
of total lunacy. And suddenly, his
need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Trembling all over with fear clutching 
a pilfered smartphone, forgetful of 
future suffering the rehab jumper 
hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony,
he fades away into nothingness.

NOTE: 'The Rush' is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's
derivatives (opioids or opiates) is administered intravenously.

The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is a poignant story depicting
the sad existence of many drug addicts. Poetic in tone
the verse uncovers and illuminates the mental processes
of the unable to function drug users, who suffer from
from chronic substance use disorder.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light
on the sinister shadow of drug addiction:
To unveil to all and sundry especially teenagers
and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and
the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experiences of all kinds of hard drugs
differ significantly, so are the withdrawal symptoms.
Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness,
whatever the case may be, the creation of an illegal and
dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.
Mitch Prax Dec 2020
Perhaps we
are both addicted
to the sensation,
the euphoria,
the madness,
of loving from afar.
GQ James Dec 2020
Girl why you doing this to me?
I can't get enough of you,
When it comes to you there's no limits,
I wanna overdose when it comes to you,
I can't be without you,
Without you there isn't no me,
You complete me and I complete you.

Them feelings I'm feeling I never felt before,
Where did you come from?
Wherever you came from?
You just ain't normal,
You got me doing things I wouldn't dream of doing,
You ain't good for me,
But I sure don't want to let you go.
Hales Nov 2020
To the
Of loving from a
Armand-DeamoJC Sep 2020
I never smoked the first cigarette
I never smoked the first joint
I never drank the first beer
I never snorted the first line
I never popped the first pill
I never dropped the first stamp
I never met you
I never found love
I never lost my heart
I never lost my religion
I never lost my friends
I never lost myself
Would I still
Do drugs
Have no real friends
Have no ability to see another woman as she is and not how I want her to be
Would I still look at someone else
And wish
She's you
Zack Ripley Sep 2020
It's not your fault if he doesn't say hi as you walk by.
It's not your fault if she doesn't seem to know you exist.
But it's not their fault either.
It's not your fault if you feel too much or nothing at all.
And if it gets bad, there's nothing wrong with curling up in a ball.
We all need an escape.
This is an important one.
It is NOT your fault if you get addicted to the drugs or the drink.
It's not your fault if you get so stressed, you can't eat, sleep, or think. It's not your fault
Because bad things, confusion, sadness, stress, loss, happens to everyone. It's not a choice.
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