Alcoholism Archives - Addiction Poetry

Popcorn

Feelings
It’s November 18. I have just left detox facility for at least the fourth time. I’ve been to rehab six different times but right now I’m eating popcorn, watching television drinking a glass of wine. I don’t know why am drinking glass of wine I don’t want to be drinking this glass of wine. I don’t even like the way wine tastes , but here I am ,8 o’clock. Drinking a glass of wine

I’ve gotten paid money to play baseball. I have a masters of business degree and I have been a successful salesman, yet here we are, again. I’m not just the homeless guy is downtown making excuses. This is my excuse, and I don’t know how to deal with it.

Over the years, there’s been labels. Easy ways to identify, to sympathize , to try and understand. Those labels are not incorrect, but are unable to be understood unless truthfully worn.

I wish no one to have to wear that label.
For the label ruins things , ruins, life, it ruins people.

My family should’ve seen a grandson by now, running down those stairs. I don’t know if I’ll ever carry on the family name in.

I felt like I’ve grown up with a lot of responsibility even though I didn’t want it or know how to do it. But I feel like I’ve tried to get my family through things that not everyone should experience and I never move from Wheeling because if I did who would watch my grandmother, she means everything to me

I am writing this in tears, because in 39 years I could never properly identify my feelings or emotions. I don’t know how to live. I don’t know why there’s any questions to go through my head every night like…. what is wrong with me and what can I do? How do I stop this?? and on and on.

Yes I’m an alcoholic. But there’s something in there that’s more . There’s something more than just drinking/. if I knew what it was, I would tell you. there is intense distain for me myself in general Ive done nothing right my whole life. All I wanted to do was have a good time. All I wanted to do was party if that’s even what you call it it wasn’t really partying it was getting to a level that wasn’t me. I didn’t wanna be me I still don’t.

I’m 39 years old I have a dog. yeah I have a place but I have no job and I’m watching TV drinking wine and eating popcorn. What kind a live is that? one day I hope someone read this, and they can relate: sitting on the couch 39 years old, tears streaming down the face, not knowing why not caring why, just not wanting to be with their face

And closing, I just sit here, confused, and guilty to not have lived a life … too regretful to not have lived a life at all.

I don’t know how to express anything. I don’t know how to express thanks , I don’t know how to express gratitude, I have no idea how to say thank you to anyone. I find myself thinking about these things often.. why am I so
Flawed? but why do I have so many talents. I don’t really understand what’s going on in my head. No no that’s rarely not really. Maybe the most flowed can help the most vulnerable. Just let us help

—Justin edwards—- Popcorn

February 3, 2024

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Feelings It’s November 18. I have just left

Poetry

TekniColour

It happened that morning, as great gray held the sky,
We sat on the steps, and I made her start to cry.

Her jacket bright green, but Her mind laced with black,
As She drew life in circles, and She kept holding back.

Dull light in her eyes, Her God almost a stranger,
She was tip-toeing the tight rope and ignoring the danger.

I smoldered and told Her this Work needs Your action.
And She sighed and She tried but She couldn’t get traction.

I ravaged my resources, just how could I put this…
She was fragile but fighting with Her spiritual sickness.

So I prayed for His guidance, more compassionate care,
As the rain rattled down and the wind whipped Our hair.

I tough-loved and rough-talked, as the dark sky expanded,
And I pushed an ultimatum so heartfelt it landed.

If She knelt with some earnest, and allowed for some bend,
This could be a turning point, as opposed to an end.

As He gave us a storm so the earth matched the scene,
I told Her, this shoulder, was Hers onto lean.

But not to solve or resolve or to turn a blind eye,
If She wanted to live, it was more than not wanting to die.

She let go and let God, braved the truth and Her start,
Flipped Her spiritual switch, and She prayed with Her heart.

The world started to ignite, and We battled to explore,
As She felt her pain, found her lane, and gave substantially more.

Then We talked of the future, not what She’d survived.
And like Dorothy in Oz, some vibrance arrived.

The solution was honestly, not self-righteousness,
Immediately Her jacket, was not the only brightness.

At first We both balked, didn’t know Who to Thank,
Then recognized Our Gods, on that hard wooden plank.

I gained My new Strong One, We farewelled a Newcomer,
Her world dissolved its gray shade, and achieved Teknicoulor.

February 3, 2024

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TekniColour It happened that morning, as great gray

Poetry

Miracle

Author: Sydney L.

Men would envy, women crave him.
He might be president.
He pictured himself in a black limousine.
He’d be given whatever he might want.

He wanted wine, as a matter of fact,
Or something with alcohol.
And so, for all his aspirations,
He really didn’t do much at all.

Or in the life of his mind he’d become
a champion wrestler. His sweat
would lend a sheen to his rippled triceps.
But he liked beer. He liked it a lot.

And further, no one huffed with awe
As he played the guitar, though he’d planned
To dash into nationwide fame overnight,
Fronting a world-famous band.

It took years to see what he was: a lush.
It gnawed at him like a rat,
How much he needed the goddamned booze.
He thinks, it was three generations back

That he started drinking if he factors in
Milk from his grandmother’s famous
Breasts, then his mother’s. Then vanilla extract,
Everclear, Listerine mouthwash– you name it:

Whatever went down would do. He looked down
From what he believed was a tower
On everything, on every being.
But in fact he kept getting lower, lower

Than Miracle

Men would envy, women crave him.
He might be president.
He pictured himself in a black limousine.
He’d be given whatever he might want.

He wanted wine, as a matter of fact,
Or something with alcohol.
And so, for all his aspirations,
He really didn’t do much at all.

Or in the life of his mind he’d become
a champion wrestler. His sweat
would lend a sheen to his rippled triceps.
But he liked beer. He liked it a lot.

And further, no one huffed with awe
As he played the guitar, though he’d planned
To dash into nationwide fame overnight,
Fronting a world-famous band.

It took years to see what he was: a lush.
It gnawed at him like a rat,
How much he needed the goddamned booze.
He thinks, it was three generations back

That he started drinking if he factors in
Milk from his grandmother’s famous
Breasts, then his mother’s. Then vanilla extract,
Everclear, Listerine mouthwash– you name it:

Whatever went down would do. He looked down
From what he believed was a tower
On everything, on every being.
But in fact he kept getting lower, lower

Than almost anyone he knew.
He dwelt in a strange cold fire.
No flowers for him to smell, no skin
He could gently touch, no music to hear.

But listen. He didn’t die. He likes
Where he is just now, and how,
Watching through his kitchen window
A white winter hare in new-fallen snow.
almost anyone he knew.
He dwelt in a strange cold fire.
No flowers for him to smell, no skin
He could gently touch, no music to hear.

But listen. He didn’t die. He likes
Where he is just now, and how,
Watching through his kitchen window
A white winter hare in new-fallen snow.

January 24, 2022

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Author: Sydney L. Men would envy, women crave

Poetry, Spiritual Recovery

Reborn from the Darkness

Author: Alicia R.

I let out a sigh but not one meant for frustration,
More like the one when your landing home from vacation.
Looking back two years prior
When my only concern was to get higher.

That darkness creeps over me like fallen smoke,
Stealing my breath and I choke.
From memory of the sickness that once consumed me
Maintaining how grateful and fortunate that I am now free.

With demons gone, those that I abhor
Pure bliss, laughter and love radiates through my core
I can give my children the life they deserve
These new memories I can now preserve.
If and when those temptations arise
Fleetingly come and go but will not be my demise!

Let my strength and faith shine hope for others still in a dark abyss
There is a way out and you can overcome this!
With enthusiasm to live and a hand reaching out
There is no blackness that you can not surmount!

December 11, 2021

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Author: Alicia R. I let out a sigh

Personal Journeys, Poetry

Detachment and Radical Acceptance-Started About Him, Ended About Me

Author: Tricia L.

There is an
ACHE
a heavy-hearted feeling, I cannot equate anything to…

A shadow of sadness behind my smile as I mention your name
because of what
LIES
beneath….

I try each second to engulf you with all the layers of
LOVE
my body can give to make this pain disappear from your being…

I try to remain in SILENCE,

convince myself it is not there….
I try to welcome their presence… but they insist on remaining
HIDDEN

Small GEESE colored GREY trailing one another,
The BIG and small BLUE SKYY, seen below
Ostentatiously organic, RAIN drops in volume
A Representative special of its kind, with refined ingredients from The Capital City of Russia, stoic STOLI.
The FOREIGN UNCLE… PAVING THE WAY AND WAS THE ONE & ONLY… TIL THE OTHERS BECKONED TO BE PART OF THE SECRET

I try to
BLINK
them away, a figment of my imagination
They continue to
REAPPEAR
surprise, and catch me off guard

I try not to succumb into
TEARS,
to crumble in my vulnerability
To remain
STRONG, COURAGEOUS
I try not to buckle, I fell in heaps of sobs
I try not to continue in the evening

December 5, 2021

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Author: Tricia L. There is an ACHE a heavy-hearted feeling,

Poetry

Fireball

Author: Meredith C.

There are no good words to explain, no shovel precise enough
to dig that deep around the arteries and veins
to that fiery heart at 120 beats
pounding beneath the wooden lid of this disease.

but let me try, as I sit on the broken planks
I clawed my own way through
fingernails still full of dirt and splintered pine
all these years later.

I leave them that way to remember
how from that wrecked last day on my knees
I waved the bloody white flag of no more
not knowing for sure what that would mean.

Which is how I found you, all fury and flash
running so fast between each Marlboro red
dancing demon on the bottle of your favorite nip
not even close to done, your will as tough as old leather.

That day at the hospital, possessed
you tore the tubes from your skin
and snaked past the nurses and out the door
to the hot summer heat of your cinnamon whiskey.

So many days lost and so were you
out there somewhere and making sure
that if you were alive to tell it,
you would have quite the story one day.

Adding to that tale, 66 proof of promises and lies
until from someone else’s shaking hands
you felt the rough jab of the needle
so deep in your young vein for the very first time.

Then coming to in a dirty unlit hallway
no one is too good for anything out there
not even you, crawling to a stop
a new depth dug at your last call.

From the constant scratches underneath the lid
from your brown eyes wild, I could see
miles across the char and flame
this one here, she is just like me.

And once all the fight and flight bled out
nothing left but the ragged sleep of a haunted heart
with just enough fear left to flee
and enough to know there is nowhere else to go.

And now with heart calm and eyes clear
the demon long exorcised from your blood
you are the fireball, a red hot ball of fire that will streak across the dark day
you once slid beneath, dreaming of the end.

No longer pulling up the warm blanket of dirt that thudded down
and scattered across the lid, you let me sit with you
on your broken planks, your fingernails still full of dirt and pine
and your will as tough as new leather.

September 28, 2021

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Author: Meredith C. There are no good words

Poetry

Learning to Swim

Author: Meredith C.

When something’s dead, they tell me
it rests.
I don’t see that—I see mistaken black toes with tags
worming up from kicked over dirt
when it rains.

It comes back when you bury it alive,
they say, shaking a finger.
I believe you, I lie.

My own head
this little thing–
I popped off and dropped into a bottle
twisted the cap tightly around its neck
and hurled into the current.

It drifted to places I don’t remember
it drifted to places I’d long since left
it bobbed and floated on
from trembling hands at dusk
to sweat-drenched dreams at dawn.

I tried to hold the head under, I even untwisted the cap
and waited for the bubbles to emerge
for the mouth to fill and flow over, churning the body upside down—
the last of that little girl, until it sank
to settle motionless on the bottom.

I am a conundrum, a bloated baby with searching eyes
staring pickled from round walls in a sealed jar.
I am the same thing I gazed at, mouth hanging
till my mother dragged me away by the hand.
I am, I am, still choking on the water in the womb I swam away from.

And then all those years later, all eyes on me
to which I said, fuck you
and ran away with the first love I ever knew.

My cup ran over and I awoke a day later,
surfacing in a crowd of featureless faces and are you okay?
there’s too much blood in my alcohol system
they diagnose and prescribe while I fold them all into a tight square
and leave it in the bottom of my coffee cup.

Rest in peace, Doc, and then I am swimming
and when I get tired I float on my back
till my head hits the solid shore, and I sleep.

It comes back, they say
when you bury it alive.
I believe you now, I reply.

The dirt frozen hard, the water frozen still
the womb a broken bottle.
And the mind, that little thing, it’s something anyway–
because sometimes, when everything’s quiet
I can almost hear it kick.

September 28, 2021

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Author: Meredith C. When something’s dead, they tell

Poetry

Buzz to the Drunk

Author: Meredith C.

It’s my favorite part
that slow ride from the buzz
the stirring of mind, waking of senses
both in body and perception
some sharpened, others dulled
in all the right places
for me to glide.

When it’s time, I am ready.
I have been ready
senses now alert, looking, waiting
for the taste on my tongue
finally and at last
another day done, another night begins
the wet on my lips, second to none.

Even the anticipation
sometime hours before the first taste
quickens my heart.

Like the chemist or the cook
measuring for just the right balance
that perfect combination of ingredients
where I think I become formidable
completely contained but free
bold, gliding through the hours
To become finally, in perfect control of me.

The buzz in my touch, full
the buzz on my skin flares
blazing across the full length of me
the buzz in my mind, binding me
to this very minute, there is only now
the buzz finally burning down my walls
to the ground, I rise up and go down.

Even the anticipation
sometime hours before the first touch
sparks the match.

Another round and I am flowing over
topping off my audacity, what I think is charm
spilling over yet calling for more
every drink served shrinking me back down
deadening my senses, deadening my heart
dropping me and reminding me through closed red eyes
why the buzz to the drunk
is my favorite part.

September 28, 2021

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Author: Meredith C. It’s my favorite part that slow