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Poetry

Recovery is harder than getting clean
being sick is a place that, I have been
but being recovered well,
that’s new to me

How do you deal?
how do you deal?
how do you deal,
with how you feel?

With anxiety
the thoughts of the drug
make me run
to the washroom
why does that excite me?

Been down this road before
not a hurdle I wanna jump through anymore
been gone so far
thought I couldn’t return

Did I lose all parts good of me,
and the parts you yearn?
tell me why with my first mistake,
didn’t I learn?

Recovery it’s part of me
I live it everyday
I just wanted you to know
I get through it day by day

Recovery is here to stay
it’s harder than you think
but it’s worth every minute for me
not to pick up that drink
or take that pill

Nights felt like dying
nights that felt unreal
but back at it again
only to make the same mistake

Thank God for recovery
and everyday it makes me live
without it,
I wouldn’t have this writing gift to give.

© Janelle Erin Elizabeth Peters All rights reserved

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Recovery is harder than getting clean being sick

Poetry

Friend of Bill

I am a “friend of Bill”
hope you don’t know that thrill
but if you do
trust me
Bill’s the hardest friend I had lately

Bill doesn’t take no duff
and doesn’t take no lies
Bill sees right through you
before you even try

I was friends with Bob sometime
before I met this Bill
and Bob was quite the slob sometimes
but he was really chill
Bob was happy stealing pills
and selling to the mob
at the time I thought to myself, I really like this Bob

but you see Bob, he drug me down
so deep below, was covered in dirt
only my fingertips poking through the sand
if you got down close enough
you could grab me by the hand

and then someone did they pulled me out
another “Friend of Bill*
they offered me the big big book
instead of a tiny thrill

In my position
I thought why not give it a try
another foot of dirt on me
I’d suffocate and die

So Bill’s my new best friend
and he’s a friend to many
he could be a friend to you to
if you feel Bob’s growing old on you

© Janelle Erin Elizabeth Peters 2020 all rights reserved

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Friend of Bill I am a "friend of

Addiction, Poetry, Recovery

If Addiction Could Talk 

by Leeanna Kligis

I can’t wait to escape all my problems.

And forget that they’ll all come back in the morning.

 

I am trying.

But I don’t know how to do this.

 

I’ve been programmed with an addict brain.

 

A quick fix that gives me instant gratification.

 

It’s the only thing I know.

I constantly wonder if everyone feels this messed up.

 

I am so confused.

 

I’m not sure what I want anymore.

 

Or who I am.

 

I set goals but don’t follow through.

 

I am a failure.

 

I feel like I’ve tried everything, and nothing works.

 

I just want to fix me.

 

But am I even broken?

 

One last time.

 

No one has to know.

 

I’ll get back on track.

 

Am I addicted?

I’ll start tomorrow.

I’ll stop tomorrow.

It feels like I’m at war with myself.

People are scared to say these things out loud.

 

But I’m not.

Because it’s so spot on that I have chills running down my spine.

Fast..

Or is it fast?

 

My memory is foggy and things blur together..

It’s romantic.

How in love with escaping my life I am.

I don’t need anything or anyone else.

Besides snacks and sleep aids.

I want to be alone….

Party by myself.

 

I have no desire to be intimate since I started medication again.

Because no one understands what I’m going through.

I am content with my addiction.

Then I’m not.

I decide to quit.

And I do.

But lately I can’t control it.

It’s odd.

I just want to sedate myself.

I want to chill and sleep and escape.

I feel crazy.

I’m addicted to a feeling.

I miss my old life.

Way less thinking, that’s for sure.

I don’t even know how to be sober right now.

But it’s the last time… Right?

 

The old me is back.

 

For the night at least.

I just saw them in the mirror.

The old me is dangerous and sexy and exciting and way more fun than sober me.

 

I finally feel good again.

But I can’t talk to people about it anymore.

 

I have done this over and over again.

I’m like the person that cried sobriety.

 

I am a hypocrite. An imposter.

 

I have no credibility.

That’s how I feel.

What is the real reason we want to use substance?

To escape.

Escape what you ask?

That loud self-critical voice.

The harsh inner dialog that never quiets down.

Are the pills making me better or worse?

What’s the point?

To feel good.

To forget.

To remember.

 

To make it until tomorrow I guess.

I’m trapped in the past and racing toward the future.

I can’t handle my thoughts anymore.

They are screaming at me.

 

I feel so alone.

 

Will things ever get better?

 

I just want peace.

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If Addiction Could Talk  by Leeanna Kligis I can't