Fri, 09/20/2019 - 14:28 -- ORANGE

When I was a dope fiend I had written words,

(taken pen to paper time and time again) 

that barely scratched the surface of things that got me going,

that started me.


Chicken scratched letters embedded

into the fibers and linens

of anything that could hold them,

and embodied me.


Timeless treasures of hidden moments trapped

not in the here and now

but there and then.


Thoughts carved out,

my hand a hammer and the chisel my pen. 

If only they were etched in stone.

If only I could write now 

what I wrote then.


I worked my way through societies gates,

into and up the ranks

of acquisition and loss.

I couldnt hold on with a pipe and needle in hand.

No willpower within.


Everything I had could be melted down in a pipe

or liquified on a spoon;

car, T.V., the newest gadgets,

even my room.


All this disappeared in an instant

with the next hit.

But none of it is missed

as much as the rhythms

the linguistic

flow I put down with my pen.

Those moments of clarity will never come back again.

Each one smoked, snorted, or shot up in my vein.


Everything material I lost in my addiction can be replaced.

If only the words I said could be erased

as easily.

But the things I said to the paper

released from me,

were only an outlet

God never meant to leave with me.


This poem is about: 


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