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Peter B May 2018
Some people overdose drugs
to fill the inner void,
others smoke like a chimney,
or drink too much alcohol.

Me? I'm a heavy tea drinker,
addicted to - Rachmaninov.
Kaitlyn Nov 2017
A rush of blood to the head
The excitement of dread
Do we yearn for the reasons we bled?

To be free from reality
Can't see your mortality
It's no surprise
Devils love hospitality

Nobody watches him slide through the door
You give him everything yet he somehow wants more
Let him tear up the carpet
The curtains
The floor

That was the last time

Every time
You swore

My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
 "you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?  
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?  
When do I get better?  
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-
All feedback is appreciated and welcome!
Amanda Sep 18
you’re the reason
i drink my coffee black

because i washed those sleeping pills
down with a bottle of red

because those happy pills
made me wired

you’re the reason
i drink my coffee black
all of my addictions
to distract me
from my worst one
Jasmine Reid Oct 2018
Swallowing pills
                         ­              &
Trying my best to get high again on the feeling, drugging myself up to remember the feeling of your lips, your warm touch, and inhale your deodorant, that succulent scent.

I want to be sleepless, and think in the night. And be happy, or sad, either one works
But I guess I just want to remember I’m alive

                     Nostalgia that drains me, happy memories turning into sour nightly thoughts.

I think of the dark night sky, and I thought there was once stars in your eyes, yes, maybe.

You made me higher than I’d ever been, and I miss you my dear dear happy pill
Druggo right here, am I right?
Addiction *****
It's such a killer
Addictions fun
A raging thriller

Weathers its a bag of twack
Or a fat green sack
It doesn't really matter
You could shoot pancake batter

**** or ****
*** with Beth
Just remember its not fiction
That disease you have is called addiction

See it works in such a horrid way
It controls you'r thoughts and what you say
And when it comes down to the end of the day
You probably going to do what it takes to pay
© Zachary J Morsette 2013
Carter Ginter Jan 2018
Amongst the purple clouds
My mind swims so freely
Thoughts of you are overwhelming
And my chest aches in withdrawal
From this new experience

It all feels so fast
But addictions often are
Pulsating heart
Your words alone intensify it's beat
Your touch makes it race even faster
But it also pulses deep

Even as time passes
These feelings grow more intensely
I can't imagine how that's possible
But I'm lost in this world with you
Warmth spreads through my body
As we lay in the silent darkness

This feels like peace
Our own escape from the universe
We've created our own dimension
Comprised of vulnerability and intimacy
Driven by anarchist tendencies
It feels nearly untouchable

You're my drug of choice
And I'm high on this love
Buzzing from your smile
And your laugh fuels my soul
I am finally present
In these beautiful moments with you

Our hands meet in the dark
Under the influence of these feelings
I know I could chase this high forever
Contempthy Aug 2018
I am the darkness,
A  candle that is barely flickering,
Yet that flickering flame accompanied by the passing of lost souls ignites just enough light within to see the **** within,
No amount of makeup can fix the scars on my face,
And that **** scale,
Is the Great Depression where all value has been lost,
I like white powder and white pills they make my toxic crimson bones a fuller shade of pink,
A pink cloud,
To float in nothingness that’s where my soul belongs
I want to shrink my body to a nothingness,
If god is love then that means I was not created into his image,
For I have never felt love with out a pericing pang in my heart,
Love is conditional,
So is god?
Nothingness though is beautiful,
But I am rotting flesh and bone with a short skirt and high heals on his bedroom floor,
He craves my destroyed body but has not time to listen to my soul,
Can you kick me out now I would like to go,
Go into the vast darkness that I am
The vastness of nothingness is my only remedy for pain of lost worth and dead souls
Noemi Amorphous Jun 2018
I am not my addictions
I am not my trauma induced behaviours and reactions
I am not my diagnosis
I am not broken
I do not need to be fixed
I am not machinery

I am no thing
I am nothing
I am everything

I am I
I am currently individuated
So are you
So are you

Heather Moon Feb 2014
So my father,
he goes into the store to buy his $10 a pack for cancer
while he still attempts to hide his addictions from my sister and I.
Now I don't think it would bother me oh so much
but his frugal attempts to sweep the dust under the rug is like using a mop instead of a broom...
We see the crumbs leading to your door from the cookie jar.
Yes, we all have flaws, but you,
weave shamefully through the under layers of darkness, devoid of any resemblance to a heavenly nature, you fall like a night creature weaseling through crooked creaky cement alleyways, your gremlin spirit set ablaze.

LIFE, I revel and roll within the taste of each second, I run the grain of life across my tongue until saliva fills the creases and far reached corners of my mouth. I tap my finger to my lips like a true virtuoso, a connoisseur of life. Life.

My father's addictions completely derail me,
not even so the notion itself, I mean yes, but his blatantly obvious ways of avoiding confrontation not only from us, but also from himself.
Like Pinocchio's nose, my fathers back gets hunched more and more, his breath quickens when we draw close.
Father you are not prey, in fact if there be a predator, it is you unto yourself. I can no longer help but to roll my eyes when you tell me for the fourth time in the day that you must take out the trash so as to have a smoke.
I am fed up, excuse me sir, the trash will still be there no matter how many times you take out the "trash" .
The only "thing" that won't be left after you're repeated offenses of the benign chore will be you're dignity because you are so naive and ignorant in the way you dodge truth. How can you live respectfully when you don't respect yourself? Nor do you value what you are spitting out to your own daughters.
I am addicted to life,
I breathe it in with passion,
I embrace the truth within me
and have an eagerness to expand my wisdom.
How come father you do something that you know is a betrayal to yourself? How come you hide away in that old bar, the one with the flashing(flickering) light on the outside, dingy worn out red leather(plastic)booths on the inside, the bar located in some musty  little hole in you're brain and a blind spot on you're heart.
You sit in the back in a lonesome booth slumped like some chump, stuck in a stump, you ooze and wheeze not even grasping for air, no fight left within, you are like mucus, a toad melting into the ground. Sinister and swindling in the greed of you're gut. Your ***** mopey yellow eyes and the shameful acceptance as you indulge in the baths of life's luxuries whilst you poison your body, trash what you hold dear and continue to block out that little annoying voice.
The voice with the cracks in it,
worn out from you're games, the voice that nags and pleads. The one that catches you before you order another round, take another smoke break, the one that pulls you, tantalizes you with it's simple sweet natural charm in hopes of distracting you from your self harming ways.
The voice that chimes in the second you raise your fist to punch me. The voice that is screaming at you when you lock eyes with mine and can see my fear.
Yeah that voice, the little punk one that returns even after the crime of your actions has been committed.
After the music stops and it's just you and the world.
but even then
I don't think you will hear it.
You're living on the edge of the pavement father.
No you wont hear that voice, not when you're twisted and contorted into the sideways way of things. You killed that voice long ago, when you wound yourself deeper and deeper like a clock in time,
when you twirled yourself into that little empty pub, with a quiet pool table, with no hope, a sanctum of greed.
Yes, you're guilty, yes it was you.
It was you who killed the voice inside of yourself.
You killed it when you traded
your dignity and your truth
for yet another
$10 dollar pack of
and forfiet.
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