i've barely even grown up
hardly old enough to drink

still this liquor smells bitter
as i pour it down the sink

i've lost everything now
only been sober a week

i think of my words now
before i decide to speak

these bruises have healed
with the cut on my cheek

not sure where they came from
i still can't seem to think

my eyes keep dripping
like a sink with a leak

i can't hold back these tears
no matter how much i blink

all i want is to turn to
that smooth amber drink

Let's say corona
Do not say corona
What a puzzle!

The brain in the puzzle
The world has a muzzle
They searched for a goal

They were at war
The increase is in struggle
Against the clear and virtual
They told the virtue is the liar

From the ancient that was a gaggle
Laughter and mock of pure
They insist the laws Tatar
Go through

The upper ability was here
Her responsibility must appear
The punish will survival

As we are like the Jesus talked
If one has no iniquity
Throw it with a stone

The world has a sin
The world does not the deserved
Who had a great fault

The do not prevent the oppressive
He throws only the weak and clear
The sins must be wide
The vice must be beyond
Our vision, land and mind

I
flustered
numbed
under-slept
perennially tired

like a distracted bird
that can't differentiate
between the birdseed
and the snare

Yet
HOPE alone
gets me going
that's my medicine
that's my vice

Day 285
I am rocking back and forth
trying to fight this temptation
because my vices are tired of
Experiencing Starvation.
.
.
.
.
.
Day 1
I tried, I really did
But here I am again
It’s never a matter of if,
It’s only a matter of when.

I've had a life of sorrow,
I've lived a life of pain.
Wednesday's child. Full of woe,
I've lived a life of shame.

I won't elicit sympathy,
I won't be bright & witty
I'll simply be true to self
I surely don't want pity.

Whenever IT happened
Really matters not
But I had tragedy when young
Was by a devil caught.

IT set about a cycle
Which, like a gerbil wheel,
Made me shunned,
Made me run,
To a trap of tungsten steel.

I was trapped by drugs & vice
Alcohol & more
Accepted *** instead of love
Practically a *****.

I felt unloved. Unlovable.
Ever since a child.
So I died on the inside
Became rebellious... WILD!

I was a cheat. I was a thief.
I ripped off stores for *****.
So I was in the trap of guilt,
Could not help but lose!

I should have died SO many times!
Dragged by a speeding car
By a drug crazed jon of mine
You think THAT left a scar??

But God had SUCH mercy!
He gave me such GRACE!
Heart of stone, and yet...
HIS OWN!
No, I was NOT a WASTE!

I have no doubt I'll always have
Doubts the devil brings
But now I'm LOVED and LOVABLE!

BY THE KING OF KINGS!!!


Catherine Jarvis
12/29/2019

There's a cigarette between my lips.
I taste the flavor, inhale the familiar scent
even before I flick the lighter to life.
There's something to be said about the difference
between the thought of smoking, and actually seeing it through.
I'd be the one to say it, but my mouth is currently preoccupied.

The first inhale is like a breath of fresh air,
which is ironic, given the nature of the vice.
But there it is -- a sweet escape, a brief release from the world that I've been in and decided that I've stayed for one second too long.
A dark, smoky finger invading my senses
as a cat grazes against your leg,
soft, but heavy; intending to make its presence known
with the gentlest touch, the murmurs of a purr.
It fills my lungs, and in a moment of hesitation
I feel peace as though, at any moment,
I could decide that I wouldn't want to breathe again.

The exhale is slow, the puff slowly escaping,
ascending to the heavens, dissipating like
dew on the grass on some mornings,
the fog that covers the skyline.
All that's left is the ghost of what was,
for a fleeting moment, an affair from the reality I've known.

And when the fire dies down
and the **** gets extinguished,
there is only what remains on my lips.
Nicotine, your name, whatever the hell it is --
I just know that it's intoxicating, addicting;
every time I run my tongue over chapped skin,
it's as if I'm chasing the very last time I've ever tasted you;
And every swig at the cold, hard rim of a bottle
makes me think of sloppy kisses on a cold winter night,
hands fumbling, nervous giggling;
of promises pieced together through incoherent moans breathed onto flushed skin;
Of empty sheets and ***** clothes,
no phone numbers to call, no names to tattoo,
nothing that can tie me to the possibility of a 'next time';
"Because there won't be a 'next time';
there can be no 'next times'."
But I guess --
I chose the wrong day to quit.

The cycle repeats, the toxicity stays,
and yet I revel in the concept of
not thinking, not planning,
just -- being.
In that moment, under the stars:
As if Time had stopped, and the sky was alight,
and I felt like I had the whole world
fit in the palms of my hands.

Because for someone that tastes so, so wrong,
you feel so, so right.