Addiction poems have been a favourite topic of poets. Too much passion, love, fascination, desperation often leads to addiction and time and again poets have dealt with this topic with such brilliance it floats between being a virtue and a vice. Explore this wonderful collection of poems about different types of addictions and their impact, be it physical or emotional. Some poems are written from the perspective of the addict while others are written by those who are close to them. Each poem on addiction encompasses a phase of life in itself.
Dragging the floor, Like a mangled doll. Facing a decrepit wall, Rip it off like paper. The blackness of void, Like a pool of ice water. Out a silver hand outstretches, Rippling the wall. You’re pulled inside, soaked by the
It was that wicked drug, Not some contagious bug, That caused a goodbye without a hug. We certainly cried when you died, And our tears eventually just dried, Because your potential to shine was denied. Even though you are dead,
Thinking, contemplating my current situation. Scared. The lights of the city are turning down. From this view I can see everything. I’m watching her come down for the night. Helping me to not come down alone. Slowly, dying together. From
I’ve blown some rocks and now I’m chillin’, An’ around my head my thoughts are swillin’, It’s a warmin’ cool without a doubt, So good when lighten’d up an’ mellow’d out. In dear drugs I find solace, not cheap friends!
A spoonful of sugar melts into his tea And how perfectly made they are My nurturing soul is utterly satisfied While his lungs let go of the tar “If that balloon pops, I shall cry I already feel just like
One womb Snip it One shame Snip it away Umbilical residue Stains the birth Of a sinister soul That won’t be tamed His tears of hunger Venomous Burn his mother’s skin The incipient evil Amplifies and flourishes Having inherited it
You tried to drop by yesterday, So sorry I wan’t home, You left a note so you could say, I don’t have to feel all alone. I have to admit it’s probably true, Nobody understands, Nobody “gets” me like you
Our conversations are like kisses to me. Your mouth opens and closes in tandem with mine as we share emotions and intimacies, translating incomprehensible feelings from the hearts of our hearts. I feel you more in your absence than I
I know,I just know… ..If I abuse I will be gone gone gone gone. More than a junkie, you can’t see it. I crave worse than narcotics. (I would trade this for being an alcoholic) Tragic? yeah it is tragic.
Love, what a beautiful addiction. Drug, with no prescription. Throughout life it is used, limits easily abused. Aroma, oh so sweet. Looks, sometimes a cheat. Yet, we take what we can get. Our greatest asset. With drugs come side effects:
Drowning in glass and aluminum Seduced by a sadistic lover A nickel for your thoughts And a penny for another Self worth turns to self pity As the shimmering facade is drained Expressions once so full of life Have become
(1) A cigarette is a green tale inside a white coffin; Her shoe is a hat, its end a line of smoke. (2) A cigarette is milk falling from breasts; Mouths are swings hanged on Oedipus complex. (3) A cigar
I In that quiet and still moment loneliness hit her, Like an empty vessel, like a roaring shore less ocean. Once she opened her mouth to speak The sluice gates of emotion let loose the words. Words, which tumbled and
In days when we have thousands of distractions It’s hard to maintain the interaction Between two people who are having fun, Who want to have relationship of number one. However in the age of modern era We have addiction of
Their gossip is a debauched addiction, Aided by an imagination, so absurd… The borders amid actuality and fiction; Whizzes away, swift as an agile bird! They are uncaring for infliction caused, Or for the aftermath of tears and turmoil… For
In Chicago, by the early 70’s, many great churches had taken flight Off to suburbia they went, seeking refuge from crime and blight In the late 60’s, one man answered the call to win the lost to Christ He moved
Introduction: It comes in a small cylinder of white rolled cover, a-four-inch-processed-tobacco- leaves, which becomes very active from slow and low combustion sustained by heat. Call it cigarette- maybe cigar-spit tobacco, perhaps, hookahs, menthol, bidis, clove or kreteks, probably, shisha
Self-love is the path to enlightenment, they say. A needle in the arm, a line snorted will never compare with a kiss on the cheek. A shot down the gullet or vapors inhaled will pale to a long lingering hug.
Our central nervous system together with all its neuron cells make up our brains and spinal cords And with it all our emotions and feelings which signal when there is something wrong with us That is how a mother can
Judgements of deception plagued my mind, Following an artificial shadow with no hope. Having problems from cognitive growth, Learning was considered a form of witchcraft. No intentions of committing remorseful acts, Yet sinned horribly with clouded viewpoints. Jinxed by the
Are angelic neurons fleshing inside a trans-Inquisition tavern? Another kind of speaking, pontificating globe? Can we feel the burning and sexing of the four seasons with the four elements, recycling earth, water, air, fire, to produce the quintessence of your
Butterflies emerge from unraveling cocoons Raising up, flying away like hot air balloons Traveling the world from calm meadows to isolated lagoons Harmonious living with the squirrels and raccoons Soaring above endless ocean until treacherous typhoons Relentless digging uncovered a
There is no thought in a fired head; Symphonious splashes of singing color hide in the back behind filling-wander. In luxury his lines moves lead; The thoughtless thick then ambitious brother isolate to suffer in self-shot slander. Then, to suffer
If I were a Book, On the shelf, I would be overjoyed to meet new people everyday. Some would flip through, Some would read through. The fact that I would enter a reader’s mind, brings thrills. The thought that one
Watching the wilting dividers, wanted to declock the time in timeless death: though life must move on. After amputation, body waits to be lifted, negating the bed. Now it was time, which would you like, nouns that hurt? Or verbs
Stovepipe tall and thin, all the shades of gray. Eyes so new you might think he’d sprung from a black snake firework. In tumescent jack-in-the-box, sprung toward the clouds. Likely to fall over yet, somehow both erect. And able to
I’m watching us in my mind’s eye bound together like thunder and lightning to get away from the world and into secret places We’re gushing alive flaming flickering love bursting born leaving nothing to chance until we fade out. Then…