His Demons Won…

…The Demons Won…

demons won

I don’t really care about those skeptics who devalue truth

And choose to Poison subjects with subjective views

The reported news again aping a prophetic ruse, it’s déjà vu,

And we are still the ones collecting clues, taking roads and avenues

To problems where our cues are taken from some synthetic muse

 

When wholesome ideas are abused or misconstrued for a respective fuse

That is when the heart desperately needs a brand-new dose of eclectic use

these looping thoughts coming through are just the venom some skeptic spews

The ruse where the devil tricked you in his cheap pursuit to believing in his Waterloo

His riposte a sad excuse, but introduced as a classic movie line long overdue

 

Those of you who are pharmaceutic professionals projecting overuse,

In such distant eyes examined, can you see the reeking of such homesick residues

addicts caged up, wasting life’s gift, kept locked away in these amnestic zoos

a victim’s view the overlap of frequent use, the portrayals in an apoplectic stew

the airway mask with nostril tubes, becomes a part of life’s corrective dues

 

I watched him overload, grabbing all the goods his worn pockets could contain

Cloudy retinas bleeding, drifting off like they are from some barren plain

Blacked out, his mane, ironic games how the drunk complains of ankle pain

If I could go back in time and beat some sense into his senseless brain

To keep the nose-canes out of frame and hard stuff away from his wanting veins

 

The world has never been the same, bludgeoned with these new campaigns

The tribulations held are cannon fodder from someone else’s polarizing windowpane

Straitjacket habits adapted by inhabitants, another facet exacted just to manage inner pain

Life in strife is still life, tempting towards the darker side, but from a student’s sample page

The only wife that this addiction could sustain is a sympathizer that comes without complaint

 

Where made up stardust particles profane the brain like drops of acid rain

Into the vein, he dopes up on benzenes, chest pains, compensating with tetracaine

No pain to blame, the body proceeds to sink itself into the numbing stage

the worn-out sink sponge awaits, a metaphoric attempt for scrubbing off the mark of Cain

The sins are left to blame, it’s always someone else, it’s as if self-affliction owns no lane

 

I vent my frustrations if just to feign to whomever, the drugs, again, hold all domain

To dabble once or twice, the beast is kept contained, but every day he plays in white cocaine

I can’t explain, I just maintain that things he did were border lining inhumane

Behind those bars where life was forcibly mundane, and he was still restrained

Restricted to speaking of how disorder finds a way to daisy-chain and still carries bane

 

But life it seems, does not come equipped with steadfast guarantees

Nor is there some manuscript on the proper spot for using keys

As if some doorway was always yours to engage with and plant your seeds

A foreign place where dreams are brought about atop the morning breeze

Or morning sneezes you randomly get from “allergies” are all a part of this reality

 

To speak of this disease as if it should hold a place in anyone’s realities

Like that innocent “sneeze” is not the first step into a world of depravities

We push the limit on this drifting beast, while the reaper appears as a little tease,

In and out of comas, between the pleas, if anyone’s negating philanthropy, then it is he,

This tragic tapestry, hung in the annuls of smoke and mirrors as a wicked analogy.

 

Not everything falls between parentheses where you can edit inner tragedy as you please

Each morning brings me to my knees worrying about his agony between parentheses

The undertone of everyday, the behind the scenes, to the gravity of what degrees

where someone else disagrees, does the temperature self-adjust to help to see,

or can he just become a simple bee with purpose to squeeze the nectar from a budding tree

 

Appeasing to another tree across a world that ‘s full of growing trees

one of them bound to be too hard-to-please, why do we have so many antitheses

One day he wakes up to a morning tea with the likes of the devil or Mephistopheles,

Blood Documents in hand, blue pointed pen, going through all the hypotheses

Empirically concluding the outcome, 6 feet deep succumbing to this cruel disease…

 

Why couldn’t it be Me

~~~

For more works by this author see Paul Neglia on The Creative Exiles.

https://www.creativeexiles.com/author/pauln/

You can also see more great work by Paul Neglia on HubPages.

https://hubpages.com/@pnknucklez

Paul Neglia
Latest posts by Paul Neglia (see all)
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Paul Neglia

Proud father of 3. Part time writer of poetry and short stories. I want to paint the world in but a few words.

2 thoughts on “His Demons Won…

  • July 19, 2022 at 3:46 PM
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    Even after being sober for over ten years, yet still battling my addictions in other ways, I feel that giving my life over to God at my weakest was my only salvation. I cannot even explain how things just started getting better. Maybe a little personal here but thank you for creating an incredible conversation on a part of my life that should never be forgotten but talked about and warned against. Your friend. Jamie

    Reply
  • July 21, 2022 at 2:05 PM
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    We all have our demons to battle and we never know what another person is going through till we open our heart and reach out to them. That is why kindness is so important. I used to label myself a ‘spiritual coach’ until the new trend came along to become a certified life coach. I could not afford the outlandish fees to become certified, so I just do the best I can to help others with their spiritual path. Anyone who needs support and an understanding friend is most welcome to leave their moccasins at my campfire so they know it is okay to come and sit a spell and converse. As always, Paul, you have great work here in this poem. Your visual and emotional portrayals have touched my heart and soul. Well done dear friend.

    Reply

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