#addictionrecovery - Hello Poetry

Some memories dissolve Like sugar in hot coffee Some crawl back Like a man hanging from a cliff I have two fathers They look alike One calls me every day after work Asks when I’m coming home If I’m alright or falling Simple care, like a father should The other comes for a week A week like hell Long enough to go sane and crazy Breath sour with cheap whiskey Boyish, immature Sad and grumpy Mocking everything I do Mind flies like a rocket But the mouth can’t keep up Can be insulting Once was pysical too But words hurt more No — what hurts Is having two fathers Wishing the first Would last a little longer Now wicked genetics plays its game I’m made like this too Two parts of one

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May 4

May 4, 2026 at 12:53 PM UTC

NORAYR

Wicked Genetics

Some memories dissolve Like sugar in hot coffee Some crawl back Like a man hanging from a cliff I have two fathers They look alike One calls me every day after work Asks when I’m coming home If I’m alright or falling Simple care, like a father should The other comes for a week A week like hell Long enough to go sane and crazy Breath sour with cheap whiskey Boyish, immature Sad and grumpy Mocking everything I do Mind flies like a rocket But the mouth can’t keep up Can be insulting Once was pysical too But words hurt more No — what hurts Is having two fathers Wishing the first Would last a little longer Now wicked genetics plays its game I’m made like this too Two parts of one

29

Now I know that something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with me — but I know it’s only temporary. I know I can change, that I can make it to the other side. Still, I know something’s wrong, because nobody’s talking to me. Endless nights spent alone — I never imagined life would look like this at 32, living life like a washed- up rolling stone with barely anything to show. Starting over for the millionth time — can’t apologize when there’s nothing left. Like a payphone with no dial tone, there’s no one on the other line, because nobody’s talking to me. Show me, show me how to live, because something’s wrong — and everyone’s looking, but nobody’s talking to me.

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Nov 30, 2025

Nov 30, 2025 at 8:45 PM UTC

joshua-phelps

Nobody’s Talking (To Me) — Part II

Now I know that something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with me — but I know it’s only temporary. I know I can change, that I can make it to the other side. Still, I know something’s wrong, because nobody’s talking to me. Endless nights spent alone — I never imagined life would look like this at 32, living life like a washed- up rolling stone with barely anything to show. Starting over for the millionth time — can’t apologize when there’s nothing left. Like a payphone with no dial tone, there’s no one on the other line, because nobody’s talking to me. Show me, show me how to live, because something’s wrong — and everyone’s looking, but nobody’s talking to me.

49

I never held you, only met you once— a blurry FaceTime smile through the screen of someone breaking. Your name still echoes in the chambers of my heart. I asked for pictures, asked about your therapies, asked if she missed you. She said yes. She said so much. She said nothing at all that could undo the dark she kept choosing. I offered her light. A room. A chance. A future where you had a mother who came back for you. But she blurred the days until stars and moon meant nothing. She couldn't see you through the fog. I tried to be enough for both of you— enough to help her see your little hands as a lifeline, not a burden. But she let go. I held on too long. Not to her, but to hope— that you'd be her reason. That love might dig her out when logic couldn’t. You were never the problem. You were the light. The small, glowing miracle she left in the dark. And still, I think of you. Jeremiah. Jerbear. Sweet boy with a story written before you could speak it. Maybe you’ll find me someday, when you're older, when the past starts to ache. I’ll tell you how I tried. How your mother did love you— in a way too bruised to be safe. In a way too broken to hold on. But I never stopped thinking you were worth it. And I still believe it now.

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Mar 23, 2025

Mar 23, 2025 at 6:56 AM UTC

Pixiiboo

Dear Jeremiah

I never held you, only met you once— a blurry FaceTime smile through the screen of someone breaking. Your name still echoes in the chambers of my heart. I asked for pictures, asked about your therapies, asked if she missed you. She said yes. She said so much. She said nothing at all that could undo the dark she kept choosing. I offered her light. A room. A chance. A future where you had a mother who came back for you. But she blurred the days until stars and moon meant nothing. She couldn't see you through the fog. I tried to be enough for both of you— enough to help her see your little hands as a lifeline, not a burden. But she let go. I held on too long. Not to her, but to hope— that you'd be her reason. That love might dig her out when logic couldn’t. You were never the problem. You were the light. The small, glowing miracle she left in the dark. And still, I think of you. Jeremiah. Jerbear. Sweet boy with a story written before you could speak it. Maybe you’ll find me someday, when you're older, when the past starts to ache. I’ll tell you how I tried. How your mother did love you— in a way too bruised to be safe. In a way too broken to hold on. But I never stopped thinking you were worth it. And I still believe it now.

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