Tag Archives: addiction

Heal Me

(So what are you supposed to do when these words keep on choking you and the only thing that feels like breathing is a hopeless view into the future where you’re a homeless dude charging dollars for the poems you wrote a moment before you stowed the things you owned into a shopping cart and you’re zoned out because you chose the high of writing over the road oft traveled: college grad; family man; suits and ties and wedding bands, pressing matters for a writer endowed with addiction but not enough talent.)

But there’s a break in the pattern. There’s a breath of fresh air. There’s a moment, no a fraction, where there’s no mention of despair.

It’s in the black of her eye, in the length of her skirts, it’s in the tremble of music she puts under my words.

She’s the waves under my boat

and if she stays

I remain


and if she wails

she’ll drown my sails

with her nails

at my throat.

We’ll be undersea, a slash of passion sets us free to ride the currents underneath, under sheets our lungs can’t breathe but her tongue does fine between my teeth, sweaty thighs and awkward knees, struggling to keep the speed, exhausted like we’re fucking to compete, gold medalists, we’re so competitive during these fucking sprees, the fun defines what life can be, what rum and beer have tried desperately to match, where drugs have failed to help me pass, when not a moment under clear blue skies could make me laugh, this girl has been my nicotine patch.

The only breath of fresh air. The only escape from my brain. The only flash of real life to keep me from going insane.

If I can only write one more thing,
let it be her happy ending.

(Pun intended).

Art By Leonid Afremov

Finding the balance between being a millennial and wanting more, more, and more.

We used to spend hours leaned in over sweet coffees or cuddled under endless stars. Spindled into deep conversations or tugging at clothes until we were butt naked. We used to ignore sleep until it tore us from reality, snoring like children in the backseat of her Honda Accord.

Now, I barely see her. I spend hours thinking about her, wondering what she’s experiencing there on her side of town. I spend hours missing her, longing for her, dreaming about her and our future. I await her arrival like a hungry pup, wagging my damn tail every time I think I hear footsteps on the stairs. I’m desperate for her company, and that’s pathetic I guess. I don’t care. If you spend all your life worried about what people think you just end up looking like a dumbass. Nobody ever agrees on what’s acceptable, so stop trying. That’s what I tell myself, but I still try.

It’s miserable to think that the things we do to be with our loved ones tear us away from our loved ones. That’s just like life to do some fucked up shit like that. Feel love. Feel like there’s fucking rainbows pulsating through your veins and your stomach is swirling with cotton candy, and just when it can’t get better, tear it all away because of balance. Life craves balance, but as a millennial I just don’t understand the concept of moderation. Millennials. Instead of defiling my poor earlobes and binge watching predictable television I’m obsessed with this girl. My addiction is better than yours.

Every night, close to midnight, the little cloud pissing on my head wedges aside to cast forth its silver lining. Because like a fairytale, at midnight – every night – my leading lady returns to her rightful throne in my arms. See, even though I might not have her all day, I get her during the most meaningful hours. I get to see her as one day transitions to the next, at the eve and dawn of an adventure, and I get to soak in every detail of her life like a sponge in brainbarf. I get everything that she is, condensed in 2-3 powerful hours – passion, love, dreams, anger, happiness and worry. After 21 hours dry, struggling through withdrawals, I finally get another hit.

And so the addiction continues.

The moments between watching what you want, and getting what you want.


Without her I am mush.
Like baby food. I am purple carrots and peas.
I am crippled by my inspiration and by my motivation, like evil clockwork or like the infinitely more evil circle of life. When I am with her, I have the inspiration to write – to write books and poems and music; to cherish every frame my brain captures of her – and yet, when I am with her I find no justification for leaving her in favor of my words. Then, when I am alone, my muscles burn with motivation – with the desire and need to produce; to create; to make use of my free time by developing my sentences and words and to do what is written in my very skin to do, and yet…
Without her, I am dried of inspiration. It is an uncommon curse – to see something so perfect that it shadows everything else. To dry the well of inspiration life has to offer because forever and always, she is what life should be. How silly, then, for that tree to grow like that, when it would look so much better if it looked like her. How stupid, for that rose to smell as it does, when it would smell leagues better if it smelled more like her. How embarrassing to think that the wind even breezes, when it would feel so much better if it moved even slightly more like her.

Life, in contrast, is pathetic.

But it is not always so. See, like a diamond, she does not keep all the light to herself. She prisms it out in many colors and hues and projects it to every corner of the world, so that when she is present, all of life becomes incredible. And once again, my inspiration returns. Unfortunately, she is an addiction and I cannot put her down, so I step right into that wicked clockwork of inspiration versus motivation.

They key, it seems, is to watch her but not have her. To be near her but not with her. To yearn for her, not to indulge in her.

Like asking a smoker to watch a lit cigarette, then write about it. It is in those words that you catch true desire – true passion and need.

The moments between watching what you want, and getting what you want.