Spastic writing
 

The most vile of them all is that which induces bile and the crawl.
Legal poison.
Sitting on the razor's edge,
All my bets have been hedged.

Would you drink a bottle of cyanide?
No way, I like being alive!
But are you really alive now?
Or through more denial first to plow?

To your ego take a bow,
Or entertain it like a clown?

Nothing comes of that which strips life.
There is no fun or joy in any of that tripe.
Illusory falsehoods,
Could've's
Would've's
Should've's.

You are great.
But poison is hate.
It degrades
And shames,
Surrounds you with flames
Of its games.

And it doesn't take names.

Is this a self-penned piece? It takes me back to the days where I actually had a writing talent and saw some of my poetry get published. The vile stuff it was. Full of teenage angst.

Natom.

Looks fine from here.

Thank you, 321. This is what you need to do--share your deepest feelings and fears.

You mentioned something about going to a meeting, but I don't remember hearing anything about a sponsor. I met with my sponsor last night, and we talked about SR--I thought I was spending too much time here. It is really important to have a person supporting you in recovery--my wife supports me, but she has made it very clear that she does not want me to dump my problems on here.

Natom, yeah, wrote it last night before bed. I used to write a ton before I became a drunk.

Eloquent and succinct.