Song of an addict (liber∞)

I wish someone had told me that
more than chlorine-free diapers and fresh jungle air,
my daughter needed my confidence
that she would withstand any poison 
to seep beneath her skin.
I wish I had understood 
any shaggy old carpet
was still a place to begin crawling -

that self-preservation is one part innate
instinct, two parts experience.

You cannot force inspiration,
you cannot force passion,
you cannot force the creatrix,
the power, the love, the real.

you can only open the door.

I wish someone had told me,
there is no difference between a heroin addict
and one addicted to sex, booze, cigarettes,
refined sugar, the love of a man. 
What are you jonesing for, really?
If I told you
"you already have it"
would you feel disappointed, too?
Don't feel guilty -
or do.
Anyways, God doesn't give brownie points
to the pious, no favours for the devout. 

In wafts the scent of familiar vice, insanity
looping its tail.
Cowardice is to shy away from the thoughts 
that smell like fear (or to take them under your wing);
to cower, to close; a quarantined airport -
the familiar turns rancid, poisons and betrays -
the virus fills the air, covers the walls,
swims in the water,
nothing saved.

And strength? To open, to remain open;
to love. To allow the influx of new winds, tradewinds -
and here, the familiar comforts
softening the hard edges of the strange.
Fear in the gut is tempered
with self knowledge, and

transforms. 

There is no difference between a money drunk
and a user of coke, good will, sadness or sage, 
art, ethos, or the church -
they all lead to the same place. 
None come with a map; each has
its own detours, street signs,
mirages. 

After infection, after rotted teeth,
after blinded sight, blasted ears,
cracked identity and bruised knees,
only the heart
will find its way. 

When the Sleepwalker Awakes

Do you ever say things
not because you mean them
but because other people have said them
and meant them?

Where do you go when you sleep?
What do you say
to the ones you love?
What do you do?
What is the name of your 
autopilot?
Their tics?

In the space between
sleeping and dreaming 
are you ever horrified
by what you bear
on your hands?

What, then, do you do
when you're awake?
Do you bury your hands
or wash (lave) them clean?