An Addicts Poem: A selection of poems written through addiction and recovery.

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Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning. They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone? Now look at you bastards, you’re thinking clear, You escaped with your lives when you found your way here. Only fools think they’re winners when admitting defeat, It’s what you must say when you’re claiming that seat. So go ahead and surrender, if that’s what you choose, But I’m not giving up cos I can’t stand to lose. So go to your meetings and pray hand in hand, for God to come save you…. leaving me to be damned.

Baby my life is full of scars in my brain from smoking shards everyday getting harder everyday trying to barter everyday just to send you messages everyday in any way that I can. Not easy! In fact, negotiating this nightmare has been the hardest thing I have ever done. It takes daily practice of letting go, and accepting that I cannot change anyone else, addicted or not, but I can change me, and the way I deal with it all.

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is a mountain that you do not have the strength to climb, but do so anyways....and you know that there is an avalanche..a moment of *collapse and destruction....that is bound to happen at any moment in time, but you do not care because....the view is so beautiful Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand. EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death. Curtis Fox: That was “Frying Trout while Drunk” by Lynn Emanuel which is also collected in her book, Hotel Fiesta. So Neil, what do the details, the very vivid details in this poem, reveal to you about the speaker? Curtis Fox: And I wonder if you can tell us just a little bit about your own experience with addiction.

He's a good man at heart, he works everyday morning to night, he such good man but he drinks and smokes and sniffs his lines and for some reason his answer is not good enough to my question why? He knows I don't like it so that when he does it he decides not to come home. These be the days his number doesn't ring through my phone. Neil Steinberg: Well, I’m a newspaper man. We’re sort of hard drinking, and after a long day at the morgue watching autopsies, nothing feels better than to put your foot on a rail. It was sort of something I was supposed to do. I enjoyed it, I really loved it. Addiction is really an obsession, it’s a mental illness. I don’t think people understand it. One of the purposes of the book is to use poetry to help people understand what’s going on, because even as you’re in the midst of it, you don’t really know. You just think this is what you do, it’s who you are. I knew I had a problem, I knew I drank a lot, but that’s just what I signed up for. I was going to drink and drink and drink and then die, and I was content with that. Really only because of my wife — she was the only person who thought this was a bad idea. The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously]. An inventively ekphrastic poem, “Still Life” places the speaker so thoroughly among the minute details of paintings as to be almost inside them, while her mother, elsewhere, suffers a stroke. Although their emotional interaction with objects is different, the mother is similarly attentive to the particularity of things, with a strict opinion about how to cut a banana. By the poem’s end, the speaker moves, like moving from painting to painting or detail to detail, toward identification with the mother, an apple not much “farther from the tree,” and holds, in memory, herself and her mother together in a mirror gilded like a painting’s frame.

My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this. Addiction also not only hurts you, but also hurts the people you love and care. To apologize sincerely, sorry poems can help you. Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?

Together, we'll continue to remember [Deceased's Name] as a kind, loving, and selfless person, and not let his struggles with addiction define his memory.He was passionate about his work and volunteered tirelessly at the local animal shelter. His quiet example of kindness and empathy will not be forgotten. [Deceased's Name]'s love for music transcended the bounds of his own life, as he taught his younger cousins how to play the guitar and the piano.