Art Gallery
m
Recent Posts
Poetry
Poetry
SECTION
logo
mobile-logo
HomePosts Tagged "recovery" (Page 3)
Personal Journeys

Author: Haylee T.

Hey there, you remember me I’m lil ole crystal. Chrystal meth yep that’s me . You were told about me why didn’t you just stay the hell away. You chose to test me like a fool and now can’t get away. All that shit the last author told you was for real not some story made up but facts were they were real. Yeah It’s true I do destroy family’s that’s just the start I turn you away from everyone that loves you I make you hate them for nothing other than being worried and concerned about the demon you have became. I take the children I sure do in more than one way I let the state have them or I drive mothers away or worse i drive them to slay the young I’m Chrystal meth no remorse because they were just in my damn way. I slowly take every bit of human away right down to the soul don’t try to fight it’s useless I now hold you hostage in my grips you will stay for all eternity I make your mind a fearful dark place I have it always running in place. I’m taking everything from you one by one even two by two even right down to your youth and health your face all sunken in look like a bare skull and aging skin so fast your teeth are no more soon you will be nothing more than a skeleton with skin And in the worst of times I got you thinking of making it an end suicide is always on your mind a hand full of pills or a rope in a tree but I’ll instead keep you wishing your life was over. But I’m not threw with you yet bitch buckle up it gets worse from here. You stupid bitch you chose to do me over and over more here and there no longer can do a little shit You have to do a whole g blast it brings you to your knees and you can just manage to be okay with being here trac marks all over your body when you look in the mirror what do you see A meth monster or can you see an image deep down within yourself a glimpse if you will of who you was just a short 2 years ago from here and now. If you could have seen what nasty and miserable empty person or shell you are sitting here you’ve become so addicted lifeless and All because you didn’t hear the fucking warns of the satanic and controlling narcotic charms you stupid bitch now you fucked up You played with fire now your gonna burn lay back in your fucking grave it’s now your turn to be dragged to hell. I own your soul!! So don’t forget about me and what I cost because I cost more to. You than anything that can be bought your life revolves around putting me in your fucking arm.

By: Haylee Jo Taylor

0 Comments
0 likes

Author: Haylee T. Hey there, you remember me

Poetry

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.

0 Comments
0 likes

Author: Meredith C. There are no good words

Poetry

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.

0 Comments
0 likes

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

Poetry

Author: Gina M.

I Don’t Miss the Birds
I’m so sober,
I miss talking to the 4 a.m. moon.
The way she’d respond in phases.
The way she rose no matter the places I gravitated.
I’m so sober.
I used to be awake for days and now I’m asleep before eight.
I’m so sober.
When I see cirrus clouds in the sky, my thoughts don’t go straight to lines of cocaine.
I’m so sober.
I used to maintain my high,
Now I maintain life.
Now I don’t look down on myself.
I don’t look down into mirrors.
I keep my head held high.
I’m not high.
I meet my reflection straight on.
I’m so sober.
I don’t roll bills into straws; my money would unravel like lockets of curls.
I don’t stumble from stalls with powder in balls in my pockets.
I’m so sober my bills stay straight in my wallet.
I’m so sober.
My phone barely rings.
It used to sing with the needs of all the people wanting all the shit that I used to have.
I’m so sober I snapchat my actual cat.
I’m so sober.
I preach meditation. I preach self-care. I preach coincidence.
Now my phone never dings because people don’t care what I have now that I’m sober.
I’m sober.
I’m so sober.
Since I’m sober, I don’t deal.
I’m too real for some people.
Since I’m sober, I don’t miss most people.
I kiss less people.
I miss the moon, but I don’t miss the feeling when the sun takes over and I still haven’t slept.
I don’t miss the way my heart used to pound in my chest.
I don’t miss the birds chirping the melody of my utter lack of self-respect.
I’m so sober I don’t miss.
I don’t miss birthdays. Or alarms.
I don’t miss milestones. Or opportunities.
Now that I’m sober, I don’t miss my family.
Now that I’m sober, we talk all the time.
I’m so sober I don’t miss the sun in the sky.
I’m so sober,
I don’t miss the birds.

0 Comments
0 likes

Author: Gina M. I Don’t Miss the Birds I’m

Poetry

By Uri Hotchberg

Where Am I
Is this rock bottom
What did I do to deserve this
Why is this happening
Just kill me

There is so much pain
Anger, shame, and guilt
Resentment, fear, and hopelessness
Darkness it’s so dark
Its to dark
There is no light at the end
I’d rather be dead

Isolation is my comfort zone
Love there is none
Not for myself
Not for anyone else
Care- it left my existence
Soul- I have none
Emptiness- I am so empty

Hope- there is none
Dreams- it leads to pain
Decisions- all bad
Emotions- I don’t want to feel
Happy- I am consumed with sadness

So many scars
Hurt many people
Really hurt my family
To many sins
And terrible things
What’s wrong with me
I hate myself

Is it a disease
Was I born with it
Did someone create it
Did I create it
Is there a cure
Is there medicine
How do I get rid of it

Repress it
Bury it
Deep deep
Make it go away
I don’t want to feel it anymore
Self-medicate

Alcohol, drugs that should work
It works till it doesn’t work
Its my way of life
The only way to manage life
Cant get out
Don’t want to get out
Need more more more
It has to work

Its not working
There has to be another way
But I’m not worth it
I don’t deserve it
I shouldn’t be forgiven
I’m not a good person
I have nothing to offer

Choice- decision
Live or die
Happy or sad
Joy or anger
Hope or hopelessness
Forgive myself or live in shame
Dream or fear
Love or hate

I am strong
I can choose
If I love
I can be loved
I can accept what I cant change
I can change what I can
Myself

Take a risk
Let someone in
Give from my heart
Help and to be helped
My love can help you
Your love can help me
My love can help me
I am worth it

0 Comments
0 likes

By Uri Hotchberg Where Am I Is this rock

Poetry

Author: Brittany M.

Overwhelmed, feeling exhausted.

Never ending tasks that never get started.

It’s  like one step forward – five steps back

Only focus then was finding which vein to track.

With the flash of blood and the push of the plunger

You filled me, like I was starving from hunger.

Steady with the pull, you made me euphoric.

Who would have known how many blessings you’d make me forfeit.

I won’t lie, you helped me get through a great deal of pain;

But keeping you around now, just won’t be the same.

I put you before my relationship, my family, my freedom, and my daughter.

I had a full academic scholarship, I should’ve been smarter.

By God’s grace I have a chance to redeem my life.

I’m going to get my shit together peacefully, without any of your bullshit or strife.

I’m looking forward to freedom in the rest of my days

But don’t get it twisted – I’ll always think of you, but in my past you will stay.

I forgive you for blinding my judgement, making me believe you were a treat

This go around, the only ups and downs I want to face is in between the sheets.

0 Comments
0 likes

Author: Brittany M. Overwhelmed, feeling exhausted. Never ending tasks

Poetry

Author: Melissa S.

I said I’d never find you,
Who knew that would be a lie
I knew what you could do,
So now I ask myself why?

I felt so alone,
You promised me comfort
In that first bowl
Who knew what I’d suffer

One was too many,
A thousand wasn’t enough
This new beginning
Was already to much

It hid behind a mask
I didn’t see it coming
In a trance by the music
It seemed to be strumming

This is my story
Who knew it’d be so sad
I only saw the glory
Blind to all the bad

I no longer felt so blue
This should have been a sign
Instead Everything I knew
Flew from my mind

One hit
Brought me comfort
One shot
Brought me to life

Nothing seemed wrong
Consequences I couldn’t see
All my pain was gone
I felt so free

There could never be a romance
Like yours and mine
The way that we dance
They call crazy in my mind

No love could compare
Your Always there
I can see the despair
I know it’s not fair

You damaged my life
Corrupted my soul
This is my fight
To repair on my own

I need to find me
So please let me go
Its time for me to truly be free
No longer for you to hold

Once you were my choice
Then you became my habit
Now I’ve found my voice
I’m recovering not an addict
0 Comments
1 likes

Author: Melissa S. I said I’d never find

Personal Journeys

Author: Samuel W. Asselstine

I wait for her as the sun rises high,

She is not here,

I see her from afar,

She is gone as before,

Little notice and without a thought,

She takes her Love,

And shares herself with so many, yet

I miss her so dearly.

I wait for her as people eat breakfast,

She dines but no longer with me,

I see her in a car,

I see her in a store, and with

Little notice and without a thought,

She has left me for so many, yet still

I miss her so dearly.

She makes me Lie,

And she makes me steal,

She makes me beg,

She makes me kneel,

She makes me hurt,

She makes me cry, and with

Little notice and without a thought

She leaves me for so many,

Why would I miss her so dearly?

I think of her at night,

She doesn’t sleep,

She wakes me up, to check and see,

If she can have just one more spin with me,

There is no such thing as never,

Just not right now please,

I can find her when i want, and she’ll take me,

And everyone else in the way,

She’ll make me happy but not even for a day,

So, I decide when she’s with me,

Not the other way.

0 Comments
0 likes

Author: Samuel W. Asselstine I wait for her

Poetry, Spiritual Recovery

How does she coax a rose from a stone?

Cold flat surface and non-dimensional plane.

Heavy burden of stone, lifeless, exhausted, no name.

Her days have moved forward with more days yet to come.

And like a stone she won’t let go of the things that she’s done.

And she sits contemplating the greatest of sin, treating each day as a means to an end.

Until one day a question came in the form of a prose.

Is there any way to coax a rose from a stone?

Is there any way to move a stone to rebirth?

No more counting on someone or something to show her self-worth?

So she sits at her table, a stone in her hand and reaches an agreement they both understand.

This life did not give her something already made, but provided the pathway to let her be brave.

So to answer the question that came from this prose;

How does one coax a rose from a stone?

The answer is simple, but the path isn’t straight.

It takes time, patience, bravery, and love to create.

Author: Joyce Brand

0 Comments
0 likes

How does she coax a rose from

Poetry

Our Ground Time Will Be Brief

Pressure on figs makes them sweeter.

—Arabic saying

 

If only your date of death were slipped

under your door—then maybe you’d jettison

your adolescent, super-human fictions, not film

your roof-launch onto piled mattresses;

maybe

you wouldn’t walk across the arc

of the bridge’s left girder on a dare,

sneakers snugged between round buttons

of oversized bolt heads, river and train streaming

beneath, your pals waving from the bank

like frightened windmills;

maybe, just maybe,

you’d stop telling yourself there’s time

for another shot, another black out drunk

where tales of that other self mount,

achieving cult status—

time for cigarettes

coughed up in the cemetery—Dog,

you’ll get over it, choke it down;

maybe

you’d stop saying there’s time enough

to travel to that distant island

with its Recovery sign twinkling;

or time

to make love again and again to

a woman you don’t love.

If you held

death beside you every night

how would you live each day differently?

What carnival ride would you choose

as the hands near zero?

What words

would you commit to? Poems that attack

cancer cells, as if the push

of pen could clear fields of them

blooming in someone’s lungs?

Would you drive

across seven states to tell your ex-lover: I slept

with someone too, shouldn’t have blamed you?

Would you sign intake forms with your real name?

Takethe train to Hoboken

and hold her hand

again? Here, this is that notice,

a Coming Soon sign

wrapped around a book of matches.

The rustled paper seems to whisper: Go on,

burn down the house, set fire

to all that doesn’t matter.

                                                Here, this envelope

and note can kindle it, watch the blooming

take the wood.

Author: DAS

0 Comments
0 likes

Our Ground Time Will Be Brief Pressure