My problems pregnant with each other
like a Russian doll
Solve them all, I could not, Dead end, I thought-
For, further I could not go-
Met the mother of them all
Dear ole Mrs Alcohol
That almost took my fickle soul
A pursuit that went up in smoke.
A blind bloke broke the yoke;
Hope for breath to a breath of hope
Not remotely enough-to cure the pain.
The smoky puff of Mrs Mary Jane;
Last we spoke, she let me choke
In my grave of fume, dancing with doom.
Not addicted- I would be proving
Only to suckle on Mrs Ibuprofen
‘It is just a way to heal…It is just a little pill’
And another one and another one
Down my throat until I was almost done
The three calls were not fun.
Find better ways under the sun
Open letter to my teenage son.
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