Did you think that it was over,

that somehow the words had finally

stopped and left to become dormant…

to die like Ophelia, crushed by my own

sense of the dramatic?

 

Addiction is a friend of mine,

one that came in the form

of music, football, girls when I was a boy

then women

and the word

of flowing peace, lost

in an author’s creation,

in a poet’s lament

and the bitter

regret of a love denied me,

by a succession of people

who found it easier to scorn

rather than ever praise,

to maintain I was only ever good

for fucking

around than live a simple live

feeding my addiction.

 

How do I stop now,

for to do so is just as insane

as engaging in the process

in the first place;

yet I see the delight

as the words eat at my skin

and temple

and the headache,

the eyes that behold my addiction

are sore and blurred

in the pursuit

of love.

Ian D. Hall 2016