Monday 6/25/2007 12:12:00 AM

It's difficult to recall, but I originally started this blog to discuss with myself just one thing. Addiction. The isolation it glamorizes. The threat of recovery. Or at least self-preservation. How it impacts my efforts to destroy myself.

Exaggeration? Not really.

I've since gone on an 'artist's bent'. For a good year. Maybe longer. Clarity is a fickle muse. I thought I knew what I wanted. To suffer. and then recover. To become intimate with addiction. So intimate in fact that it wouldn't want me anymore.

But the truth is, the uglier I get the closer we become. The fact is, I written every word the skeleton has shed. And still it's not naked.

Not even close.

In fact, I've lied the entire time. About experiences. About moments that only happened because I created the fiction. What's real is nothing to write about. Nothing that can do any words justice.

What's real is I've overcome nothing. And still ask the same questions I pretended to answer a long time ago.

Truth is like a zipper. You pull it down. Open the teeth. See what's behind the fabric. And you close it knowing you will get bitten.

I used to think all I needed was to be wounded. Then I could heal. I tried writing. All my life I've been writing. When I should've been saying.

Goodbye.

I wish I had a better reason. But right now, weakness will suffice.

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