Blizzard

It is your best kept secret and your biggest mistake: almost like an incredibly attractive person catching your eye and then manipulating you to explore their territory and eventually uneasily stepping in.  

Just as you feel about this mysterious substance, you are very compelled to trust them quickly, not knowing what the individual will do, and more importantly: where they have been.

All of a sudden, you are stuck; you are stuck like peanut butter on the roof of your slightly ignored and depressed dog’s snout.

You want to cry or run or scream, just need to get out.  

Soon, it is all gone: first you cry, and then you start sweating a cold, but clammy liquid, oozing out of every pore.

You want it so bad that you invent it, imaginary coke: it really doesn’t matter, as long as you have more.

It’s never good enough, no matter how much you do, you always….always need more, and it is never a want anymore: it is always a need.

“Is this addiction?” you may ask yourself as the emptiness in your stomach crawls up your esophagus and gags you. You aren’t hungry your newly found companion is all you are willing to feed.

You really haven’t slept in days: who needs to sleep when you can feel this extraordinary while you are awake.

After a steady week, possibly month (the high kills your sense of time) of astonishingly, overcoming any obstacle that crosses your path, you struggle, but it is not defeat, it is victory that you take.

When you have it you are dying to bathe in the stuff, when you don’t have it, you are vigorously searching for it and you refuse to stop until you find a tiny hint of your greater or lesser of two evils that you cannot resist.

The bags under your eyes that droop far past your inflamed nose clearly lead people to stare: some sympathetic, but most judgmental; you pose the inevitable question your conscious says no, but everything else continues to persist.

You meet that one source of evil and nirvana inherit the white powder that changed absolutely everything and you don’t stop running until you find an isolated place to blow this enticing, perfectly combined chemically altered substance.

You don’t care where get your fix in; the only standard is that it must be impossible to get even a glimpse of what you are doing: you take a small amount and you are at ease, at least pliable to convince.

Just as soon as the rush comes it is gone, and you uncontrollably do more and more until you are in a different place, a pleasant place; this is simplicity at its best.

You no longer feel pain, because you no longer feel anything at all, you are comfortably numb, at the same time, nothing but your emotions will rest.

You take flight, rocketing through clouds of powder and leaping across oceans of fears, you are at peace, finally satisfied. What is satisfied?

Then it is gone. It is gone and then you are stuck with you again. You are shaking and you are soaked from the same cold sweat again. You are once again you, no longer on the cloud, no longer numb, and inevitably stuck with the person you cannot tolerate. The problem you chose to ignore will never be ratified.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741