Drink

Have you ever seen Heaven

then turned the other way. Afraid.

have you ever tasted Freedom, then chose a chain.

Blackest of black nights, doesn’t compare to
(it eats color), it is an abyss. ever been there?
so alluring, to disappear.
voices, and voices…of warning.
please, god, don’t you love us.
of course….but the river Lethe tastes
like Fire.
One more sip, just to vanish…
Please, just once, I wish to visit bv
See the angels with twisted wings, fluttering
the mushrooms black…glowing,
and another night in the Faeries realm.
Just to avoid her or him, or them.
God, or whoever, let this be the end.
Had my fill, right?
Have you ever seen Heaven
then got lost in oblivion
Have you ever tasted Freedom
then got chained to a chemical.
I have.
There is a path.
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Posted in abuse, addiction, art, dark art, fiction, friendship, generation, local, love, mental health, miami, miami art, millenials, personal, poem, poems, poetry, reading, recovery, relapse, short story, shpongle, tablets, trance, Uncategorized, unique, unrequited love, writing

Reaching out for Help

Something I’ve never been good at. Why not though? I’d love to help out other struggling artists. Why not let others help me? Lets see how this goes :P. My love for writing will never diminish!

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Posted in abuse, addiction, art, bipolar, bipolar 2, dark art, fiction, friendship, gallery, generation, goa, haikus, local, love, mental health, miami, miami art, millenials, nonfiction, ode, plot, poem, poems, poetry, reading, recovery, relapse, sexual abuse, short story, shpongle, Uncategorized, unedited, unique, unrequited love, writing

Morning, Dare

Does one dare?

To cross the boundaries of her hair,

in to the abyss of crashing storms

that rise and turn, swirling gravity from

The eye, thundering blue bolts pure

searing each conviction, every vision

Sculpted in giant, her desire grew colossus

planes of existence crumble underfoot

each step a universe undone,

Who amongst the brave takes a step towards obscurity?

Tempting disaster, squelched, demolished or lost

Another silence of her chasm.

Does one dare?

To venture at a sight,

that blinds the few who never look,

Bless those, a curse to witness

Contours of Aphrodite, at each point

anew the sculptors rejoice, Prometheus has a new model

beginning a fire, so bright it swallowed the light. A fortress,

built simply from within to be a menacing sight

towering over schemes, shadowing them in eternal night.

Did anyone dare?

Towards another land,

To lay in glory, of gilded trees bark and root

In her chosen garden behind the stars, tended in silence

meant to be private. Yet every starry sky, bashful

to bloom from her flowers, every dream awake

at the heights of her vines, has a surprise

within each nook a morning in the loom,

colored in sunshine,

touched with the innocence of every lamb,

and tended with the care of every mother,

soul lighter than a feather, behind a chasm, do you Dare?

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Posted in friendship, love, poem, poems, poetry, reading, unedited, unrequited love

Relapse

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This medallion should mean a lot. This night is supposed to be celebratory. All those eager faces looking at me, it was intuitive that I should lie to them. My eyes naturally looked to the floor, as my lips said what was expected, “It wasn’t me, it was God, these 12 steps, and all of you. Thank you”. It would have been better if it hadn’t came out so smoothly. If I had choked on the words and said what was really on my mind. That isn’t what happened though. The mask slid on like a fitted glove…where had the years gone…how had I gotten to this place? Old faces and new alike, slid in and out of my vision with a variety of platitudes and congratulations. Let them celebrate, four years of sobriety was an achievement, even if I felt fake.
Sitting at the bench as everyone departed the meeting, I sat frozen with my eyes focusing on nothing at all. My mind was elsewhere, combing the past for better times. The distinctness of that first year of sobriety. When everything was a fog, and I knew next to nothing about myself or honesty. Yet even then, I was a dazed crusader looking for serenity. Wasn’t that the promise and hadn’t I tasted it? The memory of only two years before, when getting the medallion came with such relief. The feeling of hope from those days was unforgettable. When had it all changed? Why then did I feel so cold and empty…hadn’t I wanted to leave this place as soon as possible? Why was I cemented at this bench in a daze of the past.
“Yes, yes, I love AA, but it isn’t magic, I know what I need to do, still…I’ll try to squeeze a meeting in. Why do you keep asking?” was my response to my mother, the morning I decided to go rogue. Something was wrong but I had found the courage to confront it. Nobody else could help me with this. This was something that needed to be faced front-on and alone. That was when the lying began. It was for a good cause.
Plus, how would I ever explain it, what words could I use? No…grab the bull by the horns, pull up the boot-straps, that was what was needed. It worked too, every day was a new fear confronted and a new hurdle jumped. Even if things were beginning to get chaotic, at least it wasn’t the droll emptiness from before.
As boldness and a thirst for life reawakened, so did the recklessness. Every morning I put on a smile to face the challenges, but lurking ever in my shadow was that gnawing sense that this was akin to tightrope walking. Soon everything was falling apart, with nowhere to go, and no one to talk too. The world’s weight was crushing me. Visions of catastrophe filled my vision. I’d be homeless, a failure, and die alone. It all happened so subtly. Even if all the other fears were braved, those old ones came back louder than ever. Why not try a beer? This was my journey, and even if it lead to destruction wasn’t I going that way anyway?
At first, the can was heavy, but it got lighter as I drained it in haste. Quickly, the relief settled into my stomach as it spread roots of warmth. The tolerance was zero so it was like drinking for the first time, everything began to blur as a cheer settled in the room. Why hadn’t I done this sooner? Immediately I put on John Coltrane and wrote, to optimize this inebriation while it lasted. Words flowed from my fingertips like lava, casting new paths and directions on my screen before I could catch up with them. It was amazing, even if a lot of it sounded terrible the next morning.

It might be manageable, but it probably wouldn’t be, no amount of delusion would let me forget that I was an alcoholic. This might lead to death, or worse, and that didn’t bother me. A long lost friend had been found and I needed to capitalize. So the indulgence began, as it became a daily routine again. They glistened, those Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys, and four just wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Why have to make the drive back here again later, I reasoned? The lady took the money with the same cheer as every other day.

This was getting exhausting, buying beer, then having to get more.Getting the harder stuff would be cheaper, I reckoned one morning. I remembered liking whiskey.
Soon a forgotten stench returned, the kind that does not go away with a shower. Luckily, I always had a buzz, to stop any contemplation. My insides were like sewer pipes, leaking a foulness that I could not escape. Yet, as long as there was alcohol to float my worries, it mattered not.
On the edge of my thoughts, I rationalized that this was under control. Perhaps in a week I could stop and rejoin AA. Deeper still was the nagging realization that I was drinking for oblivion. A shadow that haunted every can, cup or bottle.

Here and there, moments of sobriety would occur and a tremor would slide from the tip of the fingers up in to the neck, as an omen for what was to come.The rot felt like the never-ending flu, and the sweats became an annoying jacket I had to wear.
Once again, I had polished off the 1.7ml of Canadian Lake, that was meant for three nights. It was noon and it hurt to open the eyes. Before I could scorn myself, everything hurt, but most of all, I began to shake. My heart was pounding against my chest plate like a bull trying to escape its pen. Hurriedly I got up, almost falling over from dizziness. A cloud had formed in between my vision. I needed alcohol, and fast. I knew what these were, delirium tremens or to the unacquainted: alcohol withdrawals.

Thoughts were forming sluggishly in my mind and evaporating quicker than I could grab on to them. Seizure, seizure, death, heart-attack, violent shakes, was the list my mind put together of the outcomes of alcohol withdrawals. This was of a magnitude I had never experienced before.
The legs were full of jelly and my face was dripping sweat, as I stumbled out of the house to my car. This was a dire situation, so even if driving was insanity, I also knew that I would die without alcohol. Almost crawling into that same 711, I picked out a four loko and threw money at the cashier. Her face was one I can’t forget, of pity wrapped in disgust. I gulped it down in the car like a frightened animal until the tremors stopped, until the spike dislodged from the brain, and looked out to see a clear normal day. At once, I began to plan.

That was just an episode that would pass, my mind was working clearly again.

It did not, each morning was the same terror.

Soon, these episodes would come on after only an hour of drinking.

It was hell, having to drink enough to be able to drive to replenish the stores of alcohol.
To drink only enough as to keep the tremors away, but never too much. I also feared floating my brain.
Somewhere in that living nightmare, on one painful morning, came a different sort of thought. One that was clear and sound, a striking difference to the ticker-tape madness of all the other thoughts that seemed to come from nowhere. ‘I do not want to die for pride and a bottle’.

“Now I know the true meaning of humility. That my struggles must be shared. Here I am before all of you, a living testament, with 90 days of sobriety, talking about all the things that haunted me. Doing all the things that I once feared. Thank You.”
I said from the podium, looking out at all the eager faces, meaning every word. My knees shook and my eyes battled for the floor, but I looked into the face of every person who commented. Until a newcomer spoke, saying,
“Normally I don’t share, but you have given me the courage, and I too went through what you went through…I just want you to know how much you have helped me”.
Everything else from that day is a blur, as adrenaline took over. Yet I knew, without any doubt, that I had a purpose. That my story and my secrets were not a treasure to be hoarded, but tools to help others still suffering. The sky was amazingly blue that day.

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Posted in addiction, reading, recovery, relapse, tablets

rag doll

“all i want is money, i don’t have time for friends”

is what she said. then there she was, with him.

ever seen a flower ready to bloom?

this was her once.

6years i regret my cowardice.

of that night, i barely remember.

 

yes. we were forged in secret.

hearts connected. gypsys of the night,

i remember tampa.

the sadness you had, when you went from his bed to my couch.

nights of plundering; the world for joy.

learning to ride longboards stolen by the neighbour.

yes i was a thief. so were you.

sally, running from nightshade.

we took halloween town.

forged an alliance at youth. to be there

forever keeping the backs of each other.

i drank too much. i said things from whiskey, out of jealousy.

all a game.

we connected.

wiggle, tap, tap.

every show you loved i watched.

inside and out. similar our souls danced,

i saw you smile. really smile.

pulled stop signs out of the ground when you argued,

or got trapped by strings.

i thought i was jack.

run away, we would. it took every courage to tell you what i felt.

i messed it up.

i brought you smiles.

i brought you smiles.

then you chose him, and him.

i never used a negative word. the love was unconditional,

as real as the onions we stole to eat,

the wine i took to sleep,

then i left you to him and him.

scars upon scars.

i paid your bills. lies building lies,

i can blame him but can i blame me too? or you.

for the scars. for being left alone with a broken collar bone.

a hammer was in my head, to destroy this him.

instead i chose to use words, buy shoes,

make you feel loved.

do your school, even though you left it for him,

told the world your family abandoned you,

when you just fluttered back,

to scars.

implosion. after 6years of helping from a distance.

standing 6 hours in the rain.

with flowers, you chose not to take.

was it fear? i became a pariah,

when i tried to show you how a man treats a woman.

now the circle is complete.

back to the scars,

i left with nightmares.

i tried.

i loved.

i tried.

the more i gave the worst you treated me.

i guess thorns grew from the scars,

perseus i wanted to reclaim it all,

instead i was

prometheus stealing the fire itself, anyway,

with everything i could give

to let you bloom.

now you are crushed.

scars,

real. inside and out.

sally, i wish i had been a better jack.

i tried, almost died,

but regardless of the injustice.

regardless of the loss,

i still love, and wish and dream,

for the flower to bloom.

to know that you smile. that hidden garden of

lips likes vines that can change a mans heart.

i wait in silence. but my feet must move forward.

there are other flowers waiting to bloom.

 

 

 

 

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muse2

statues are fascinating.

did you ever see why?

when it starts,

a butterfly is all

there was… fluttering a dream,

in some sculptors mind.

only to find anew,

the perfection of his simple heart: surrounded by crowds,

to see the Lady.. which they changed with assumptions,

molding the stone with alternate vision,

losing its beginning.

perception that hid the garden, of something real!

Of Someone true, not stone,

not an object to view,

but a butterfly, from the divine.

just like all who live,

she,

him,

remember, our stone is not limited:  to ignorant eyes…..

when a universe is truly inside,

we are, human!

let that be our monument, in the eye of a butterfly, fluttering in the realm of realities chime.

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Posted in friendship, generation, love, mental health, miami, nonfiction, ode, personal, poem, poems, poetry, reading, recovery, relapse, start, trance, Uncategorized, unique, unrequited love, writing

Reaching out for Help

🙂

Boch Special

Something I’ve never been good at. Why not though? I’d love to help out other struggling artists. Why not let others help me? Lets see how this goes :P. My love for writing will never diminish!

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Alice 3

Alchemy from a divine recipe has altered mine eyes,

to reveal how small the yesterdays look,

as they fade to dullness, a voice booms hope

from outside the tower, in my mind, a lost girl creator of worlds

infinite with eyes gigantic, blinding in their radiance,

the landscape changes, vision bends and surrenders

to a new purpose. everything before, all the memories

accomplishments, crack and dissolve, it burns and burns,

on the knees looking through the window, with awe,

i find myself wishing to be a caterpillar,

Or a doormouse serving the tea, to grow wings or fill the cup and offer

all that is me, in humble pie,

to be in her shadow is to be a part, with head attached, walking through the madness

of Perfection

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Shadow

It has troubled me from the start,

Following every moment, basking in a shade.

To what do I owe the swamp? From which I came,

It calls in voices familiar.

In troubles that are so linear,

that unto the beast that haunts the thoughts,

I vanquish with a drop, here and there I call unto others,

but truly the battle is inward, does God wish it so?

Or is it fate, or just a universal joke?

So the lights are bright, it is of course a delight,

To bask in that shadow, which haunts with me,

to form another thought, one bright, not of fear,

So let me light a torch in sincere, to be another,

Formed from that crack that broke, but a burden of truth

Upon others, what else is there? but to delight, that there is

Always light?

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rambles

Relapse is the dreaded monster under the bed, the proverbial elephant in the room, and at the same time an unavoidable part of the recovery story. This is not to say that relapse is required or a part of recovery, that is simply not true. However, it is also not the failure or abomination that others might see it as. One of the reasons it is such a controversial subject is that anyone in recovery or anyone who has been close to people in recovery have most likely seen the damage a relapse can cause, or witnessed the death.

Heroin and opiates in particular turned the relapse, which in the beginning with alcoholics might mean a long time of living in hell inside a bottle, could now mean instantaneous death by overdose. It changed the language and confused the methodology. There is a line in the big book of alcoholics anonymous that tells the person who is debating whether or not they are truly alcoholic, to go out and test the waters with a bit of controlled drinking. That in itself was dangerous, but now in this era of hard drugs could be a death warrant. This wasn’t a particular failure of AA, it was just a miscalculation based on ignorance of the future.

So how do we handle relapse? What can be done? Those are the types of questions ad infinitum that come from the wreckage. I have experience in this, having relapse quite a few times, and been witness to others relapses. At treatment centers, 12step rooms, and anywhere that tries to help the addict/alcoholic, there is a hysteria of what to do with this relapse. For some, it can mean a drunken night that ends in the morning, or a weekend crack binge, etc, but for others it can mean years of misery or as stated earlier death. There is a reasonable cause for fear and panic.

The problem as i see it is one of perception and human instinct. When something is terrifying, destructive, and doesn’t fit in to any logic…humans have the tendency to create all kinds of weird theories and defenses to try to re frame it in to the realm of the understandable. The single greatest line in the big book is the one that talks about how an alcoholic does not truly know why he took that drink, even if he gives any thousand of reasons. That is the truth as I see it.

This disease as it is labeled now, is one that is hopeless and illogical. It centers in the mind and spirit(whatever that is) and has no logical cure. Recent science has confirmed this in part, that the frontal cortex of an afflicted addict does not work while in craving. The frontal cortex is the part of the brain that logic centers in. This is where a normal person would get the thoughts that “hey, remember you have a family and this isn’t worth it”, where an addict/alcoholic will never hear that voice or it will be overpowered by a thirst or hunger that only those who’ve experienced it can know. Where nothing in the world exists but that drug or drink. All the lights go out, and tunnel vision sets in.

Now, one of the interesting unexplored or at least unknown to me research that id like to see is that of spirituality. For some reason, in that moment when the frontal cortex has gone black and all i could taste was whiskey in my mind, the idea of god was the only light still on. How is that possible? Is the part of the brain that works with spirituality, the only part that stays on, is it unaffected and therefore the only true defense? I ponder.

There is hope, because millions have recovered. There just isn’t any perfect path. There is a long journey ahead, and if you’ve relapsed my best advice is to try again. Its a miracle when an addict/alcoholic stays sober, so don’t beat yourself up. If you have someone close thats relapsed, just remember it is there disease, so don’t beat yourself up. Reach out, but don’t let them burn you, be supportive but don’t drown. We all carry on, keep the love and pass the torch. Its the best that can be done.

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cheshire

the sun drizzles an orange glow on the brick roofs,

its quite the sight, after a day of puking emotions.

in contrast to the quiet and stillness of the mossy trees,

that arranged themselves in disorder.

it reminds me of my mind when i came here,

alive but confused, trapped behind a curtain.

it appears, the ring of chairs beneath the vengeful tree,

to arrive at the center of gravity of this community ive melted into.

i listen again to the war drums of glorification, but now…

i call it out with a silent roar, coated in kindness.

i challenge the kid from the streets, to give up the concrete,

the dealer to say what he means, give up the poison.

ive given in to love, it is strange, i even romanticize the dragonfly,

connect to the one most like me, show him my scars and remedies.

with a shape-changing cigarette, i inhale the chatter of my new family.

i am them, and they are me, i see it daily, like the alligator scouting leftovers,

it becomes clearer with action. the ego melts in this chair amongst my peers.

i thank whatever is there, for a voice, and courage to use it. my friends do too.

as long as i remember equality, consume tolerance and exude love,

the world grows brighter, and as a Cheshire cat i grin wider.

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swampy ponderings

treading through a swampy pondering,

lost and sticking in those same old spots,

escaping the phantasms of yesterdays, and stumbling

over the possibilities, the mangroves shudder as i spiral further

inward, but then i remember a time, where words made a path

and the light of forging them together on to paper, calmed the beasts.

i grasped in the fog to the pix-elated dimension.

to find a voice unhidden, “well, then you should”,

now i write unhindered of the secret to escaping,

swampy pondering’s.

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