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

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Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened. It's a belonging you covetously latch onto in a desperate attempt to find any source of comfort, when you don’t even realise that it's only comforting because you’ve filled it up with everything you hate about yourself, every word you wish you never said, or thing you wish you never did. It's filled with every person you wish you never met and hurt you wish you never faced. addiction * is letting your *highs carry you throughout the night because it's the only way you'll be able to greet the day and then allow your lows to drag you through it Neil Steinberg: That’s one thing I’m hoping this book does, and I didn’t really think about it until I finished. The purpose of it was to use poetry to help people in rehab, or help people with addictions. But when I was done I was kind of hoping it would use addictions to lure people into poetry as well. Because I do think poetry really embroiders your world. It’s true for alcoholics and drug addicts, but it’s true for everybody; we want to lead a significant life. Poetry, as much as it’s ignored and reviled by the general public, is a tremendous way to give your life depth and richness and significance that it would not otherwise have, at least for me. So I’m hoping that this will cause people to realize that all this stuff is there, and all you have to do is pull it down and start to read it. Neil Steinberg: Yes. We’re under a variety of stresses. Getting a release can be difficult. I think substances are increasingly there. Drugs are becoming more legal, more available. Some of the Puritanical scorn that came along with consuming that kind of things are going away; it used to be a sin, and now it’s just a bad choice. So yes.

We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.

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Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior. So don’t take for granted my powers sublime, I’ll bend and I’ll break you, time after time. I’ll crumble your world with the greatest of ease, I’m that madman inside you…. I am your disease.

Neil Steinberg: It’s a very quotidian act, the handing of the plate. That sort of to me drives home the horror of this, because they’re living their lives like this, it’s a condition of life. She’s doing this very ordinary act, maybe her dress is ripped open, maybe that’s about to happen. Time is fluid in this poem I believe, like it is in memory. But it’s a beautiful way to end this poem, because it’s so open ended. It’s not a definitive end, it’s just the ordinary life that she carries in her memory continuing. If you want to stop taking drugs, your GP can tell you about the treatment options and services available. They can also refer you for treatment. I have just spent ages replying to you, and lost it all because I had taken so long composing it that I was logged out!! We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request. If you’re struggling to overcome an addiction, no one needs to tell you it’s tough – you’re living it. Sometimes you could use a few encouraging words to remind you that you’re not in this alone and that, yes, change really is possible. With that in mind, here are some words for those in recovery, each designed to shine a little light when things look dark.

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Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals. I've lost count of the number of heartfelt letters I sent my son, as well as the many times I tried to talk to him.