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#addiction poetry
s0larize · 1 year
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depressedwordvomit · 7 months
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the crossroads are a sacred place
And where has all this longing brought me? To the crossroads for the hundredth time. Tearing up dirt with my bare hands, I no longer know what I'm searching for. But I am here, and it is now, and the sun set a long time ago. Is it enough to simply want? Can it lament me a home? Would I even stay if it could? No, I don't think so. There are greater things on the horizon. If I make it to tomorrow I will capture them, crush them in my hand like wild berries, drink their juice from my dripping palms. But, for now, I am at the crossroads, digging with torn up hands
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laikacore · 4 months
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rash decision
text and photos by laika wallace
click through for better quality
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bonecavities · 9 months
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Yesterday I got some herbs to do a ritual in the bath. A cleansing if you will.. something I desperately need. I am harboring a lot of negative energy in my heart over the death of my significant other.. and many others I’ve lost this past year due to substance abuse. Today, I am almost 40 days sober. but they were not so lucky. I remain heartbroken and weighed down.
If anyone else has any other suggestions for on what type of rituals or such I should do to wash this energy away I am open.
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mybrainbile · 4 months
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Your touch plants flowers in my head,
oh how well I sleep in your bed.
And I know what we said-
casual instead.
We’ve both been over fed,
with love that made us bled
Maybe that’s why we dread to be misled,
watering something already dead.
So I’ll continue to grow to love you quietly,
the way you have me feeling is borderline inebriety.
I’ll admit it gives me anxiety,
the way something’s gone soft inside of me.
But I think I like to be warm,
and I’ve grown so tired of the storm.
Please just tell me if you could confirm.
I don’t want this to just be something else I learn.
- afg
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neuroticboyfriend · 4 months
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an early morning poetry draft (formatted weirdly bc tumblr mobile sucks) about addiction:
oh, darling / there is no love / shining / through the window / of your soul,
for your eyes betray / your silver tongue / and quick wits / always one step ahead / ready to bite and snare,
you constrict / and change your tune at will / just to keep the fleeting thrill / held hostage within your veins,
what sorry man you are / if only you knew / your life never had a cost / but if it had one / it certainly wouldn't be this.
untitled as of now, wouldn't mind suggestions actually, but i cant promise i'll take them.
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66cloying · 2 months
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its nothing really
it was the burnt grid pages of the notebook you swore to him was an art project
it couldve been his hair in the moonlight
it was a confessional.
its the smell of smoke now. not the pleasant kind only the kind that burns and sticks and makes your lungs bloom blue when hes painted in a shocking pink
and he paints you, he tries, but youre nothing but heaps of atrophied muscle you coughed up, that consumed you, that just wont take any change.
you are drunk in a graveyard. you are on your own again. you dont think your legs can carry you home.
the cider youve drank is more splattered on the pavement than it is in your system. its in colours of blue and red in the light from the stained glass that reflects onto it.
this is where you were always going to be.
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how do i say
they say sobriety
will give me freedom
to have any life I dream of
but how do i say
the drugs give me the freedom
to feel anything I dream of
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junkieicarus · 3 months
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2/7/24
the trick
man who thinks he is special
because i let him treat me as poorly as he wants
he just fails to realize
that anyone who gives me drugs or money
can treat me however they please
i don’t care
have this body
it was never mine to begin with
the only ones i know how to love
are the ones who have nothing to offer me
that’s the only time mistreatment hurts
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breathofthemuse · 10 months
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Addiction is a special kind of hell.
It's a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Just when everything in your life is going well, it'll seduce the hell out of you with a sweet smile and sly eyes.
It'll whisper,
"Remember how good I made you feel?"
And coo words into your ear like, "just one more time"
And you'll lick your lips and fantasize about the life that could have nearly killed you,
A life you would have died for, just for a moment of presumed pleasure.
But oh, how tempting, because don't you remember how comfortable the chaos was,
Slipping inside of you,
How enticing that rush was?
How every little bit left you craving more?
How much you ached?
The beauty of being numb, and how it felt better than sex, just like you were told.
Beautiful blackouts that felt like waves rushing in and carrying you away, slowly, but violently.
A bloody drip in the back of your throat that tasted sweet, too sweet.
The shakes that would remind you that you're still alive, although you didn't want to be.
See- this is where the trouble starts.
The romanticization of it all, but, shit, can you blame the addict for being seduced by the addiction?
Can you blame me?
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s0larize · 2 years
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emilydickinsonswife · 3 months
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potential tw: addiction
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ripthesmileoffyrface · 10 months
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I hit you in the face when I was 10 years old. To wake you up. You didn’t wake up.
You will never wake up. I hit you in the face when I was 10 years old to hurt you back.
You didn’t feel a thing.
I cried the day I turned 15. I wanted you to text, call, anything. You bought me a bottle of rum to say happy 20th birthday.
If you called me this year I would have killed myself that day. Maybe for the best. (Either way)
I wanted something, not nothing, if you ever sent that rum I would have drank the bottle alone and I would have hated you more.
I watched your coffin slide into the furnace today. It’s the first time I saw you in 6 years. I wanted you to hurt like me now you’re dead. I wanted you to die, I guess this isn’t what I meant.
I have so much to say to you but you’re gone. I never wanted to talk. Not till you died. These people are strangers to me but they call you family.
How can that be?
Forced to get to know you through stories. You at a Queen tribute band. You said you’d seen the real thing, they all think you were very funny. Subjected to these photos of you blowing out birthday candles, I don’t even know how old you are. I never cared till it was too late, and neither did you, Dad.
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laikacore · 6 months
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last year it stayed warm until november
if you do something weird downtown nobody will remember
the sea of people is everchanging
i burst into tears walking home thinking about not thinking about you
i am spinning out of control in a controlled space
maybe i'm a joke? maybe i'm a joke
i'm crashing to earth
i'm not doing well
last year i ran up and down the streets watching the lights twinkle
last year it wasn't okay
last year i was sick, did you know i got sick?
i asked my doctor if i was going to get through this
they didn't pump my stomach at the hospital
untitled by laika wallace
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bloodandchocolatee · 2 months
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A poem
I don't know what to say lately. I say too much lately. My brain races and my heart loses. Or maybe it's the other way around. I can't do anything right. I can't even do anything. I don't want to go anywhere unless it's to him. I don't want to belong to anyone but him. All I want is him. All I need is him.
I decided to stop eating yesterday. What a loaded statement. I guess that's like saying I decided to start dying yesterday. I'm also wishing that he'd hit me lately.
I feel empty lately. I haven't done much in a few days but sleep and that's probably why. I'm slowly decaying and aiding the process. I want to make art. I want to die. I want to live. I want to love and be loved. My nails are bitten and my hands are tired. I am a succession of bad decisions. I'm fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional and I'm FINE. I'm fine I tell him I don't care you won't fuck me. I haven't stopped writing yet and I know that's a good thing. I don't care you won't love me. But I hear my bones tell me that I actually really fucking do.
Unrequited love is a sad story. What the fuck even is a sad story? It's my story. Sob story sad story. I'm miserable and ecstatic. I'm heartbroken and apathetic. I'm screaming and silent. I am a dichotomy at my core and he knows it.
I wish he'd fall in love with me. I wish he'd hurt me more. I wish he'd punch me and bruise me. And that's the truth. I talked to my therapist about it today and we came to the conclusion that if I had bruises people would ask. And I'd love it. Attention is what victims of neglect seek. In fucked up ways. Like losing so much weight people think you have cancer. That's what I want. I want to lose 50 pounds. I want to destroy myself. God I'm sick. God I'm sick. I don't want to get better. Half of me is better, the part of me that doesn't drink anymore. Half of me wishes she was dead.
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mybrainbile · 4 months
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I try to share my orange,
you say no without thinking twice.
I know I’m borderline I feel it in my gripe.
My behavior has always been so damn archetype.
You could call me a creator,
the way I make something from nothing.
Long shots, framing my own shortcomings.
I like it best when I can go running.
A trauma response,
oh how stunning.
But now I saw the sun again.
And I forget how much my heart strains,
and I forget about all the pain.
But, when you kiss me I know I’ll never be the same.
- afg
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