by Thom Amundsen
I won’t allow you inside tonight,
keep you just at bay,
stay away from me you’re a fright
always getting in my way.
I remember the first time you spoke,
the words spilled out in chaos
a defensive burden, a speechless choke
the alarm of knowing my loss.
You took away everything I loved so far
in a life short yet incomplete
I didn’t understand you were my czar
to help me define my defeat.
I want this, I need this, I screamed inside,
with an external facade of grief,
To those I loved I continued, I would deride
for their inane illogical idyllic belief.
I was especially unhappy when defined
my world was wrapped deep within
a lifestyle I’d discovered far less refined
than certain peace you’d suggest a given.
I became dependent upon your own scrutiny,
that habitual creation of shattered will
my life wallowed slow toward certain insanity
while artificial stimulants would be my fill.
The crash and burn of a societal taboo
wandered into my livelihood.
Soon there began a surge of hiss and boo,
a spiritual gift is hope that I could
achieve new levels of sanity that remained
nearby if I chose, I had to believe
every aspect of relief and peace now gained
became a fuel to your loss; I still grieve
only in fantasy, only in the reality of dreams
can you ever master addiction, return it seems.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thom Amundsen is T-I-R's poet laureate. He teaches, he writes, he directs, he simply is—a husband, a father, a friend, a fellow traveler in recovery. He keeps the blog of his recovery and transformation-based poetry, I'm a Teacher, Again.