Confessions Of An Addict

I can interpret this bewitching,

with but words what’s roots spring,

from midway down a rabbit hole,

Guilt bespoken by a pheromone,

induced dialect that indicts my,

pathologically, straight-laced,

demeanor,

due to depictions that indicate,

the likelihood of my being high,

off of the whisper-light glow of her.

A glimmer that hisses at me,

like wet Tai sticks smoldering,

in obscene loins, fathoms deep,

beneath the sticky sweet,

coal-black soul of a hashish pipe.

In this overcast state in which,

like simple light lusts to be,

looked upon by a prism,

craving to be painstakingly considered,

I recede,

and as I sink, spy myself,

a gossamer stretching and, 

diminishing toward her,

needing her touch,

thirsting to be washed through,

her soul;

waiting in turn to have my,

interned hues exposed.

She comes upon me adorn in,

but a Cheshire smile,

I can hear my blood thumping,

mmf-umph, mmf-umph,

throbbing stark naked through,

my ear's aural heart.

I trip or fly—one,

trapped at the top of a mushroom cloud,

ten miles high by nine lives wide,

While I'm with her I'm Superman,

and I will never die.

Blistering primal cells, 

potbellied with the pearling blue,

smoke of puerile infatuation,

cover me in cold sweat,

constructed of a million tingling, 

thoughts of falling,

completely drenched,

in slow motion,

floating at the bottom,

of a dream of drowning.

Yet, I stand itching and panting,

chased to the edge of a cliff,

by her, my yen,

born as a birthmark in my skin,

a lewd strawberry in the center of my back,

an egging itch that I dare not scratch,

A master that I can't outrun.

In this figment, she is much more,

than my chosen opioid.

She's the knotty root of my addiction,

coursing through my veins,

as the lust soluble lava of my blood.

As what remains of my resistance,

falls mute like a boulder,

into the gripping rill of her,

ashamed of my fear, I follow,

and as I fall, paint pictured messages,

to myself of what heavens lie below.

As her waters engulf me,

like the breathing in of a kiss,

salty bubbles glide past,

and on their way, lick my lips.

I surmise that they symbolize,

Sexual pretenses that bait and guy,

the fleshy portions of my primal id.

Because it acknowledges her to be,

my eternal Jones—my only true imperative,

but much more severe.

Descending, I breach the taunts, 

Of sober Dons,

that label my thoughts Quixotic,

and judge them harshly,

As unworldly wants, desires all too common,

coming a dime-bag-a-dozen,

to a love-drunk dreamer,

An addict's next need, en passant.

But they're not.

They just say these things,

because they think I'll stop.

As if I would go back to being,

me, pious and sullen. 

But, they're wrong.

Theirs are just gray words,

slipping by me like a leaden fog,

of gnats and no-see-ums,

trying to kill my buzz.

I think she makes them all,

Uncomfortable. Or perhaps,

My paramore has me paranoid.