All I Am. All I Have. Is Words.

Watching Intervention I began to notice a pattern;

besides the all too familiar downward spiral,

beneath the pill popped, main-line injected shell of an existence we call entertainment,

were memories of old hurt.

Etched into flesh like track marked footprints.

Like crumbs leading back to a not so distant past

eaten by crows

making foreign the familiar concept of home

Or maybe the two were always estranged.

Seeking needle and stitch

trying to sew soul remedies

hoping they’ll finally stick

laced in the synthetic tonic 

of chemical imbalanced comfort.

Waiting for the absolution of an apology.

Magic words.

                                                  I’m Sorry.

Like… . .

                                  I’m sorry for the way my drinking affected you

Or… .

                                  I’m sorry I never noticed or stepped in.

And sometimes …

                                  I’m sorry but I can no longer watch you flirt with suicide.

Waiting for an affirmation of love and acceptance.

But we never see behind the scenes.

While you stay awake at night snorting lines of love poems

hoping its notions will soak into your cold blooded streams

and melt the frost around its edges.

Each new layer of ice colder and harder than the last.

The rush of cold is just adrenaline.

And the embrace you long for is just your breath catching in your chest.

Enslaved by your own addiction

I watch from the warmth of my own living room

wondering who you could have been

and how the promise of limitlessness dreams

turned into the guarantee of degenerative disease.

Cause when they told you to shoot for the stars

they didnt mean

push the needle in so deep

stars are all you can see.