groundhog day.

I find respite in substance, well, some of the time. In the past, I’ve struggled with substance abuse. In times past, I could not sit with my feelings; in times past, I would reach for a crutch. Times past is never too far though, for tonight I reached for the bottle. Whiskey and coke, it hits the spot. The warm feeling in my stomach, the suppression of what I have lost. Almost 3 years ago I discovered meditation, and it quickly became the thing which supports. A perfect person is what I am not, and so I falter. What can I say? I seem to find respite in what which facilitates the disassociation of self, the transportation of self. When I write, o’ when I write, I am taken away to somewhere beyond the physical. O’ when I write, my heart spills across the page, o’ when I write how different do I feel, I’m provided with an avenue by which to express how I feel. And I express, I express and I express, on and on, until, until I’ve got nothing left. When the thoughts fall from my brain and land on the page, oh how empty my mind feels; when the thoughts imprint them on page how much better do I feel. I let my fingers to guide me on a journey of self-expression, I let them guide me to a better place. That is until I think of you. And when I think you of, I drink, and so the cycle repeats. From thought to pain, from cup to lips, from thought to page, from page to thought; I’ll forever carry this weight, it seems. I hope someone breaks the cycle, for I am a trapped man; a tortured artist.