Addiction – Simon's still stanza

We Are More

Another response to reading a very good post on depression from Inside the Life of Moi yesterday. There may be times we feel unwell, having a bad day, or, are beset by maladies or pathologies. But we are more than our symptoms or our passing circumstances.

We Are More

(i)

He sits on the kerbside

With a cardboard sign,

“Please help,” inscribed

on its pulpy surface,

and, in the lines around

his eyes, and in them too,

darting side to side,

“Need more money”,

continued the message.

For while he medicated

His ‘voices’

With cheap plonk,

A desperate user took

His last dollars.

His schizophrenia controls

His happiness and habits,

Yet

We are more

Than the pathologies

That pin us.

(ii)

She shares half her sandwich

With him,

Then hears

TOOT!

An idling car awaits,

In readiness to take

Her where

She will ‘work’

This night.

Later she breathes in,

As the barby point

Of the syringe

Also enters in.

Morning sees

The ambulance there

To take her away.

“Another overdose”,

we overhear

someone say.

Yet

We are more

Than some

Of our habits.

(iii)

He takes his “Please help” sign,

Turns it round,

And with

A texta he found,

Begins

To sketch,

Feebly at first,

Then

With gusto,

A portrait

Of her,

That Toulouse-Lautrec

Would be proud of.

Yes

We are more

Than the symptoms seem.

Simon C.J. Falk 13/14 July 2016

Addiction

We have all had experience of compulsive and addictive behaviours. It could be us, or those we love. This little free verse touches on some of the insidious experience of addiction.
Addiction

Comes in slows waves at first,
Just a social smoke
With mates after work.
Smell on the clothes triggers the lecture
From unimpressed others.

Years on:
Those quiet minutes,
In the garden
On the verandah,
The drawing in
Of the exhilarating exhalation.
Those minutes,
Those moments
Of restfulness and peace.

Cigarettes gone:
The dartboard gets a workout,
Pummelled by uncoiled tension
That used to be released
On smokey out breath.

But
That’s OK.
The exorcised anxiety found other shapes
And repossessed its host.

Now the keyboard and the monitor,
The apps on the touch screens,
Are the new fixation
For the frazzled.

It robs you of hours,
Slowly
Drained away
Like a persistent leak
Or an unseen, internal haemorrhage.

Just when you are tired of it,
You succumb
And fall
Again
And again,
Like an iPod on repeat
That never goes…
Flat
Until…
You are flat
From the shame
That flattens you
In its wake.
And
You become
Sick and tired
Of being sick and tired
And lack the get-up,
The will,
To change
Or be changed.