Candlelit midnights

November nights

Poems written on a night in late November.

The way I do
I have written a stack of notebooks about the hole in my chest and aching of my past.
I am always looking for the words that will fill me, the words that will fix me because maybe this metaphor will help me release all that has happened.
Writing has supported me through my darkest nights, but it grows to leave a twinge of guilt and uneasiness.
Shouldn't I be past this by now?
Why am I still as stuck as I was six months ago?
I don't want to be seen as the man who is always struggling.
I feel like I should be more than my pain.
I walk into a room and get the sense that I leave others more unsteady than they were when I walked in by holding myself the way I do.

Picking up the pieces
I am beginning to see a life outside the rain.
I lived in the skies of pouring waters for so long that it was all I knew, all I ever wanted was tainted by what I was accustomed too.
I am only beginning to step out of the storm.
I am just starting to walk on ground that is not mud sinking beneath my feet.

I love you so, please let me go
I often miss the sense of happiness I found in the drug induced high.
I miss the feeling of barely being able to keep my eyes open.
I miss the vast disconnect between me and the world around me.
I miss the late nights that went until sunrise.
Even the ugly parts, the burning of my nose and aching of my spirit, I miss it.
As much as I wish I could relive these moments, I don't want the horrors that come with it.
I don't want to relive being sick because I stopped.
The thought of admitting that rehab didn't work leaves me fearful.
It's not only that but the toll this takes on those I hold closest, the possibility of it all slipping through my fingers before I can get out this time is enough to keep me clean.