Soul Snatcher

The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.

I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.

“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”

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Adjusting to the ‘New Normal’

Here we are, nearly four months into the pandemic. The whole thing has been a very strange experience, for all us. It’s been a shared experience across the planet, though some countries have managed it better than others. I’m learning that the ability to adapt is so important.

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Addiction is Like (a poem)

Addiction is like an old record skipping,

caught in a permanent loop,

but you can’t stop the needle,

because you’re handcuffed to the radiator

and your hand is sore and bleeding from

trying to break free –

so you keep pulling until you realize

you can only accept the skipping sound

and once you do that, it’s like

you don’t even hear it.

(Photo by Steve Harvey on Unsplash)

Spirit and Flesh (a poem)

This gothic cathedral was once a spiritual home.

Priests dabbed foreheads with holy water and

incense wafted to high ceilings and

parishioners chewed on wafers and said:

“Peace be with you.”

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Pride: My Biggest Character Defect

During the years I’ve been in recovery, I’ve learned alternative definitions to many common words. Take “pride” for example. In most cases, it’s deemed good to be proud of one’s self. In recovery and religious terms, though, pride is seen as one of the biggest sins or “character defects.”

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On Anxiety and Choosing Faith over Fear

Rachel has told me many times before of her struggles with anxiety. When I listened to her, I used to not be able to understand it. I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly calm person, and I can remember many moments from over the past several years where I’ve felt very peaceful.

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The Hate Inside of Me (a poem)

I only wanted love from you, but loving you was pain –

the laughter one day, followed by grief and terror

from whatever state you happened to be in.

I ask myself, “Who were you?”

You discarded me like an object and

closed off that side of yourself

that seemed to contain the Devil.

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Death-rattle (a poem)

Death has come knocking,

quietly at first and now with a shout

that rattles the planet –

My instincts are conflicted: for so long,

I have craved oblivion, but now that it’s here

there’s a fear that plays with the chemicals

in my broken brain.

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