The haze in my sluggish mind clear. Fresh start:

A slow collapse into cold sweats and recession.

Gray floors, and walls, and streets, and doors part

To show heart shaped lips – never ending obsession.

Pointless, this craving. Sound to the deaf might

Show more useful than this eternal longing.

Fingers running over cold sheets turned to rite

As resolve begins to crumble, another hit calling.

Life has lost its Technicolor as Eve lost Paradise,

Spiraling down into wretchedness and resistance.

Grown accustomed. A fix: addiction – is my vice.

Dysphoria seems the only result of abstinence –

Withdrawal its only conclusion.

In the end, I question sanity before illusion.


My first try at a sonnet, however it is not written in iambic pentameter.


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