When I was a dope fiend I had written words,
(taken pen to paper time and time again)
that barely scratched the surface of things that got me going,
that started me.
Chicken scratched letters embedded
into the fibers and linens
of anything that could hold them,
and embodied me.
Timeless treasures of hidden moments trapped
not in the here and now
but there and then.
Thoughts carved out,
my hand a hammer and the chisel my pen.
If only they were etched in stone.
If only I could write now
what I wrote then.
I worked my way through societies gates,
into and up the ranks
of acquisition and loss.
I couldnt hold on with a pipe and needle in hand.
No willpower within.
Everything I had could be melted down in a pipe
or liquified on a spoon;
car, T.V., the newest gadgets,
even my room.
All this disappeared in an instant
with the next hit.
But none of it is missed
as much as the rhythms
flow I put down with my pen.
Those moments of clarity will never come back again.
Each one smoked, snorted, or shot up in my vein.
Everything material I lost in my addiction can be replaced.
If only the words I said could be erased
But the things I said to the paper
released from me,
were only an outlet
God never meant to leave with me.