The most stubborn addiction is one
we all share,
and of which we remain blissfully
unaware.
.
It lies beneath all that we think,
do and say,
an urge from which humans cannot
pull away,
.
a wish that we notice most
when it’s gone,
a fear based in needs birthed
the moment we’re born,
.
a dream that feeds nearly all
of our sorrows,
a craving that chains us to
yesterdays and tomorrows,
.
a hunger you sense in me before
you feel it in you,
a hunger we’ll both suffer until
our brain cells turn blue.
.
We’re addicted, my friend, to a thought,
wish, idea,
an assumption we almost never see clear:
.
that Life should give itself completely
to us,
that we should be drivers and reality
the bus,
.
that people, like suits, can be altered to fit,
and that fears, tears and pain should be
treated like shit,
.
like nasty waste that we should just
flush away,
instead of intel about what our life
is today.
.
I suppose what we really want is
to be God.
It’s the most human of fantasies,
and one that dies hard.
.
But so long as it lives in us
we are hooked,
and must jones for control
wherever we look,
.
unable to rest, trust, surrender
or play,
or be who we really are in what
we feel, do and say,
.
and doomed to discover that
no control can relieve
the ache of hearts too greedy
to receive.
.
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