I cannot be as weak as this
I pick the **** up to my lips
Inside I cringe
at every binge
I do despite my thoughts of right.

I believe I can control myself
but, I must be thinking of someone else,
for this dependence
that's over me
has taken my ability;
- to see the good in all that's bad
- to get a smile from someone sad
but,
what's the use of optimism?
what good is hope inside this prison?

My addiction's taken over me
though I have a dream to be set free

But, a prisoner I am bound to me
unless some force inside of me
unleashes strength
unto my soul
Regaining all that drugs have stole
and if this happens
if it only could
that I'd set my old **** down for good.

You can't put all of your happiness
into one person. They are
temporary. They do not last
forever.

Things break.

The dependence is a thin line that stitches
your heart to the object,
struggling to not slack,
and one day,
like she broke you,
you will crash backward.

Love is not fear, and fear is not love.
This belonging to another, being psychologically
nourished by another, depending on another -
in all this there is anxiety, fear, jealousy, guilt,
and as long as there is fear, there is no love.

© Matthew Harlovic

The roots of trust are entwined in a soil of dependence.
The roots depend on the strength and warmth of the soil to provide nourishment.
Without dependence, trust begins to shrivel and fade,
it's roots slipping out of the loosened hold of the soil,
The plant falling,
lying alone in the cold shadows of the sun's rays.

To try to place it's roots back into soil can decay the plant further,
To try to hold up the plant without soil whilst being surrounded by nourished plants is even greater torture.
Almost any attempt is proven futile.

The only attempt one may make to have the plant to stand again is to find a very special soil.
One that meets the needs of the plants.
Soil that is willing to attend to the plant whenever the plant requires it,
to make sure trust doesn't wither in confusion,
to make sure that trust...
that trust doesn't suffer one time more.

I'd like those passing trees to be my life.
Like a child who traces the contour of nature,
as they whoosh by the window,
on the backseat of a car.

I'd like someone else to drive,
to see one-fifty meters ahead, all the time.
I'd like the sunshine to toast my rested face,
as I head somewhere, always.

And sleep as the miles go by,
as the miles,
miles go by.