Long Detox Poems
Long Detox Poems. Below are the most popular long Detox by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Detox poems by poem length and keyword.
All you need is the will. Where there is a will, there is always a way.
But, my polluted mind couldn't see the path to success ahead.
No map exists to sobriety, or a magical compass to recovery
The lifestyle I once lived, so empty and desolate.
Only able to completely rely on my own self.
For recovery, you need people. And, people are willing to help.
I surrounded myself with all of the acronyms.
AA, NA, MIA. I felt lost in the madness.
A peer in recovery helped me find a start; a Detox program.
These words so unsettling to any real drug addict.
But, this time I was done. Beyond done, Completely over it.
Their medications allowed me to surpass that three day barrier.
A mark of achievement I had so many other times missed.
By day seven, I started to feel slightly more normal.
A pre-dope normal, one that existed before the drugs took over.
But, then I opened my eyes and I saw the doors.
I knew exactly where those doors led to...
They led to the street. They led right back to the needle.
So I just stayed, and moved right into their inpatient program.
A place I swore wholeheartedly I would never go.
The twenty-eight days can be summed up in one word: Reassuring.
Each day I grew more confident, and began to feel reassured.
Just when I came to an acceptance that recovery was truly possible.
Once again, I stood weary at those same two doors.
I decided to speak out. It came from a place of fear and despair.
I was directed into a new form of safe haven.
IOP, with an emphasis on the "intensive."
For four hours a day, for four days a week, I worked at recovery.
Each day building upon my new foundation of inner strength.
When, and only when, I felt completely ready.
I left IOP, and again I immersed myself in those acronyms.
I also found a healthy replacement for my abundant time.
The gym became my therapy, relieving me both body and mind.
Working out was my new "high." Only this time it was healthy.
Through the entirety of this life changing experience.
I learned many new things about life, about myself.
Proving that where there's a will, there is definitely a way.
It took first reaching rock bottom, and the absolute lowest of lows.
to learn first hand, that you can't reach the top, without first being at the bottom.
They say that happiness is the key,
to the best things out of all that we see.
They are in constant pursuit,
of the mystery that keeps them smiling,
forgetting any bad they go through everyday.
They keep on searching,
running after anything promising a great journey,
through life as they try to forget all the dreary,
situations that befall on them constantly.
They seek to put out the fire burning,
deep inside their minds disturbing,
their peace and goals they strain achieving.
They seek the alcohol,
drinking it all down just to quench the thirst in their souls,
their beliefs of being happy lying at the bottom of a bottle.
The only cure they have prescribed in their thoughts,
taking the pain away block after block,
taking it apart till its no more.
Feelings of joy taking over all they do is smile, '
feelings of sorrow disappearing from deep inside,
they can feel it taking over,
eyes full of blood none left in their brains,
thoughts all gone they can only try to train,
their hands to hold firm the drink they placed their faith,
in order not to miscalculate their movement when dancing,
and end up spilling it on anybody passing.
Their feet staggering,
getting tired of lifting,
the body by every passing minute.
Alcohol meets blood now their minds are working,
yapping all that comes to their tongues no stopping,
no thinking just talking,
its exciting....
till the morning,
something is wrong his body dictating,
nothing feels right he keep on guessing,
looking around disturbed,
trying to keep his eyes from focusing,
on the light in the room curtains closed he is stressing.
His head throbbing,
too painful a feeling that thinking keeps him hurting.
Stomach running and that's what his feet are doing,
running to the bathroom to release whatever is corroding,
him inside such a horrible feeling.
Its unbearable,
sleep might cure it all.
Time is all he is losing,
energy is the only thing he needs to be gaining.
Dirty and hungry,
but the thought of food makes him worry,
he needs energy but not food, such irony.
The task left to the blood to detox itself, how funny,
that it keeps him alive and he fills it with trash,
is it worth it?
Does it really make him happy?
Is there a possibility
found ground up homes posted
and supported keeping the world
just the way it is peace or pains
welcome on to the blizzard falls
I wish the mother of the past still knew
this man places the sword downward
sleep and sneak around blames words
shined lights and coming towards many
how does this best meet up with fictions
through crowded lands and empty spaces
They heard the call and angled them
focus power on extra hand neck and walks
best foundations affordable and classy
shade to blinding physical attractions
musical efforts shown me the truths
compare words written calm beast tail
might that afford solutions approaches
responsibilities plans and actions respected
personal effects and glamour the wise often
people grab at sticks before with loved ones
completely broken had to info hope and faith
chased the fortune willed much of deep ones
Letters to myself in poems and written pages
in handsome rhymes with my former youth
studies and crafts became clear pictures
thieves climb and grabbed the materials list
pact and past memories and drama seen
welcome into do or die solutions cloth longs
fighting and grappling expensive tastes from
hard work long lived more in stores divided
but with views in the dark, I become stronger
slept awakened the side of me posted up
balance the key ingredients made up visible
visited the dead through the lights of rooms
never needed you to cry but I'm chancing
sober power and affected your moods now
brought out of the shell I feel and jumped in
major moves here and there opening passion
special finished and feeling move our ways
short and skinny then big and fat now days
between money and creativity choose show
detox and streets glories moment of fatal
fast but slowed lowered doom apon many
soul and crime spirit and freedom touched
blessing of meeting up with team's champion
color black, white or brown eyes codes sound
major moves and watching the scenes too
environmental problem waste pro demo less
achieve this duty water his problems wetter
protect it care for it make this grand soaps
and best believe the shine people watched
soul of a changer brave is the pack of team
you know the true you man it's deep...
I studied cosmology for 4 years before I realized there was no mention of make-
up or hair styling.
I saw the movir "Superfly", and didn't understand why they never even showed a
zipper!
I wanted Lasix surgery- but, due to being stupid, I wound up with Latex surgery;
now I have "boobs".
I love movies- and had my heros- and I was classified a "copy cat". But I got tired
of the hair balls in my throat.
I'm probably the only one who considered suicide by H-bomb.
I ordered a "Blair" catalogue, expecting a book about witches.
I had a car I nicknamed "Flattery" 'cause it got me nowhere.
Ever notice that some hospitals have a "detox" ward? Does that mean that
somewhere there's a "tox" ward?
I'm a musician-I've been, for years, trying to join a "Rubber Band". Guess that's a
stretch, huh?
My house is so messy, I don't remember the color of my carpet.
I used to be a department store buyer. But I could never afford to buy stores.
I suffered from chronic pain for years. Then I got divorced.
All this talk about "role models"- boy- just go to the bakery!
I have a very high IQ- but in my case it means "Idiot Quota".
Someone once scolded me about my self-depreication. I replied-"It's better than
self defecation!"
Everytime I went to the psych ward I signed in as "Randall P. McMurphy" true!
confused? see "One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest".
Russian? I don't know, they seem to move pretty slow to me.
Napoleon Bonaparte? I don't know, I've had a number of Napoleons from
various bakeries; I never found any bones.
I guess the Nazis must'a needed a lot of underarm deodorant.
Cell phone? I don't know- seems like being in prison is hardly worth it.
If we capture Osama Bin Laden, instead of death, I'd make him watch Billy Mays
commercials 24/7. (Too gruesome to even think of!)
Jock itch is a bit_h. Glad I'm not a "jock".
Wars never end, they just change names.
I once spent a winter in my old home, alone- no heat, no gas, no phone,no
food,sometimes no electricity. Ever have your underwear frozen fast to your
body? True!!
Well, my friends, till we meet again! Here's to Soup!
She thought I loved her for the texture of her hair
Yes, but I also loved her for her flair
We thought that our love will always float in the air
We were sure, and for this we stood foursquare
She thought I loved her for the cocoa brown color of her skin
I could care less because that’s not the reason for our love’s tailspin
Our souls were joined at some point in passion like a Siamese twin
Long before our popular love turned into a devotion that had-been
Perhaps we expected our actions to always be so circumspect
Love is conditional, relationships need an emotional architect
So, she thought I loved her for the velvet cavity betwixt her thighs
I don’t apologize, she is a powerful woman, or else please advise
She thought I am a man-shaped drug the detox to which is painful
Till I remembered that many of her devotional phrases were so guileful
Saying that she has been in a hole for so long that it started feeling like home
Saying that she has been watering a dead flower and every flaw was a syndrome
Saying that she has justified to many scars by loving a person who’s holding a knife
Saying that she would rather be in a relationship that is full of love and life
Saying that she has her boundaries pushed, her thing inside has been awakened
You might wonder whether her hitting-the-freeway had already been preordained
From the oceans of love, our feelings have been invited ashore
The absences of which each of us can barely account for
Perhaps we expected ourselves to be as perfect
Little did we know that in this prison of letdown we’re a convict
But should every slip-up we confect be checked?
Every box of that which doesn’t connect us be ticked?
We dwell with the denizens of the deep - our ship’s wrecked
We both know that we don’t need a restraining order
To come to the grips of it that it is over
Lips that taste the tears, they say are the best for kissing
I pray that you save the kissing for your engagement ring
So, then I can be happy that I dried my tears to see the stars
When the sun was gone and that only memories will remain ours
A couple of years later, at age 19, this farm girl married and, true to her Catholic
upbringing, began having children. She had four live births and four miscarriages over the course of less than seven years, long before the idea of “post-partum” depression was even a gleam of understanding in anyone’s mind. After the birth of her fourth child, a girl who would grow up to study environmental sciences and eventually draw the correlation between that first atomic explosion and her mother’s first episode of mental, emotional and physical distress, that infant had to be taken by her aunt and uncle to care for lest she perish from failure to thrive because by this time, mom was so deeply depressed, she was unable to care for her newborn.
In those days there was no such thing as mental health care, no understanding at all of how to nourish the brain or detox the body from the effects of poisons and radiation…for indeed these advances are only recently gaining traction and still only in the realm of “alternative health care”. With no understanding of her condition, or of what would even constitute appropriate care, her state of mind and body continued to deteriorate. After more than one suicidal episode and losing her children to foster care while she entered a treatment and rehabilitation facility, she was eventually diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic and manic-depressive, giving her husband sufficient justification to divorce her and blame her parents for not telling him that she was mentally deficient before he married her. Even the Catholic Church agreed and granted an annulment of the marriage that produced his four live children and four miscarriages while he served in the Air Force and left her to care for his children while he was away for years at a time overseas on unaccompanied assignments. But nevertheless, the marriage was officially annulled so that he could marry again sanctioned by the Church and his Catholic bride could continue to take unholy communion in mass.
Sans Whole Body Out Of Country Transplant
hmm...methinks mebbe aye
can empty the ocean
one teaspoon at time bine bye
and after about
a bajillion years cry
tears of joy, when mine
petrified organs of sight decry
solid sea floor to mud dill
across to Iceland eye
would readily forsake
United States citizenship,
and buzzfeed akin to a human fly
hooping genuine emotional
physical, or spiritual
philanthropic gratuity
could be accepted
'pon being bequeathed
from this guy
'course after friendly
bantering initiated with "hi"
and once settling upon lingua franca
as modus operandi
this wholesome casual
conversant chap would appeal
himself as (non GMO gluten, and
monosodium glutamate free) bonemeal
suitable *****sapien reserved
quite pleasingly congenial
to shake hands after
mutual agreement reached,
whereby roundly accepted
apprenticeship contractual stipulations
understood asper "Art of the deal,"
an awesomely empyreal
corroborate burning man
Matthew Scott Harris
in effigy "FAKE"
immolation funereal
faux "cremation ashes"
topped with goldenseal
thee initial process
to detox and psychologically heal
from Trump Bite US strain A
(or alternate spelling
D. trump pen lumpen throat
or a similar
facsimile concocted "FAKE"
illness thereof - NOT IDEAL
for man, woman, or child,
who quickly become fodder material
(a bio-hazard devastating
entire folks future generations genetics)
symptoms easily mis
taken for nasopharyngeal
infection, where optimal
cure comprises bland oatmeal
with jelly beans, thus I app peal
to provide sanctuary else this real
threat to life and limb
will find me to suffer fools
unless via quaffing hemlock
rigor mortis from grim reaper ICE steal!
Like apples falling from trees, people like
us aren’t supposed to travel very far. Born
into penitentieries. The last brick laid
generations ago. Solitary confinement.
Four Walls, uncomfortable bed, and a
mind that wont stop. Trading our souls for
wax paper. Folds of momentary silence
that we inject with old needles. Tired
plungers push quiet through our weak
veins. Track marks like road maps help us
find our way back when we go to far, but
some of us don’t make it back.
Road blocks along the way. No detour in
sight.
All alone.
Just one more time.
Last Breath.
Some of us die buried in early graves. The
dirt to young to hold our bodies up. Tears
fall like a great flood, because no ark
could save us. Tired families left with
questions, still tracing the tracks we left
behind for answers, but some runaway
trains never come back and that’s just the
reality of this disease. There is a way out
though. Like apples, plucked from a tree,
packed in a box, and shipped far away, we
can escape. We can go to meetings, plan,
make real friends, and get someone to
sponsor our prison bream.
Detox.
Like living through our own death HURTS,
but we survive.
When lost souls come together for
something greater then themselves, they
are no longer lost. We are no longer lost!
Every dirt path we walked through
barefoot made us a little bit stronger.
Hands and knees scarred from crawling.
Tear ducts empty. Dry tears screaming,
desperate for the next fix. Aware that our
souls are breaking, falling to pieces on the
ground like rotten apples left on the tree to
long and not willing to do anything about
it. These are the feelings that make us
who we are. Today we share these
feelings. Crack our chest plates open and
bare our souls. We get honest for the first
time in our lives, and finally
We feel part of something.
My soul crys out for the love denied and secrets untold,
Awaiting in solitude these chains of loneliness in bondage they hold,
My heart great how it aches in a constant agony,
Regretted yesterdays still haunt Unforgiving blasphemy,
My spirit discontent robbed left restless the cradle now still,
Unpicked babies'breath the antidote that time will heal,
I counted to seven then took a deep breath,
Harshness in numbers realness is death,
Addicted to the numbness with intentions to change,
My plans interrupted and sickness arranged,
On the floor sweating as detox unfolds,
Unaware is the child ill not get to hold,
As the days go on and we drift apart,
Broken an understatement your little heart,
Good intentions have no meaning no acknowledgement this time,
No forgiveness will I receive for this unspoken crime
Guilt is my vail innocents lost in vain,
Im left with no words only my shame,
As though under Quarantine kept locked away,
Hidden in darkness no light from the day,
In this casket lonely but not alone I lie,
unforgotten unfairly and never to cry,
Sweetness taken but also givin in silence,
Lullabies that echo murderous violence,
As though under a spell awaiting a true lovers kiss,
In Catatonic stillness my unborn they wont even miss,
This pain that I feel has me immobilized and wanting to leave,
Entangled beloved in this web woven each beat does it weave,
Warmth takes over crimson lips of a lover,
Gone away forever sins beneath the cover,
Winter ends and the the snow surly will melt,
Just as days alone must fade and love again be felt,
Left alone abandoned by love and by life,
Empty my womb now no need to wife,
No more tears i decided unknowing though know,
In our perfect time will be joined together in soul,
My son I named you an hour before eight,
Forgive me for loving you moments to late,
Like a junkie,this habit I must feed
Searching,longing-for the next fix;where shall it lead?
The soundtrack to my life:A sonnet to my death
With each passing letter,I appreciate each and every breath
Why is my smile not true,How can they not see it is so fake?
Almost to much for my heart to take. Inside all I hear are their screams and shouts
most are not mine and this I don't understand?
Though I've given up control-this has to be part of his plan
Why do I feel their pain,hear their deepest,darkest secrets that they would dare not share:
At times it is a blessing but mostly so unfair.
Maybe he gives that to me too feed the habit,so detox can not be
Yet in still I have the sweats,shakes,delusions and I'm not sure what I see.
But my habit is fed and fed well
Sometimes my poison is Heaven-Sometimes my poison is Hell
My muse is gone and my habit I feel creeping up my spine
and all I hear from home is your doing great;just fine.
If they only knew what it would take to make my hand to stop,it would have to be broken
then too be ambidextrous for the painted word must be spoken.
This is my habit-This is my drug,emotions upon my shoulders ,I dare not to shrug.
I try to feed my habit and tonight it has been fed well to the top.
My hand simply can't quit,it knows not when nor how to stop!
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