D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: addiction

Shouting

I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m shouting
I don’t know if you know this but
I’m trying this is a
new town a new place a new outlook a new
poem new eyes new this is a new car
this is new
this is an attempt
this is effort
this is killing me
this is slow death
this is me subverting a stereotype
this is where I do that
this is where I actively show weakness to people I don’t know
these are the problems of a man you wouldn’t like
this is how you ink a fountain pen
this is killing me
this is how you finish a liter of liquor in one short sitting
this is how you lose your mind
this is how
you can trust me I ought to know
this is how you think you’re worth it
this is how you write stilted verses on your
phone at three thirty in the
morning this is how many
milligrams you take and this
is how much you drink afterwards to
feel like at least tonight your
blood pressure probably won’t
rupture your eyes this is how you
take a deep breath and come back into
lower orbit this is how you think you’re
not batshit for a fleeting fucking
instant this is how you meet
new people this is how you
embarrass yourself this is
how you justify it this is how you
become unconscious
this is how you derive hope
this is how you lose your mind
this is how
this is killing me
I don’t know if you
can hear me but I’m
shouting.


It’s not so bad as it sounds.

Better Times

It’s not so bad
I make it out like it’s
something else but it’s
not so
bad—
after all I’m alive
and I’m not likely to ever
live again
and so for now
I can sit here
and write
and sip whiskey
and hear at high bitrate
through well-reviewed and expensive
headphones
the sounds I like to hear,
safe from the
cold and
the rain
and the war and famine and disease
and what the fuck am I complaining about?

I’ve made strides
for I believe
this is the first poem I’ve ever written
with a relatively clear head with
thoughts passing through my brain
at a normal pace and
not at the
speed of
speed
and I know this isn’t good
writing
I know everything I’ve already written
already beats the
everliving shit out
of whatever this is
and I know that I’ll
never again write as well
as I did
but if I don’t
I hope I don’t.
I hope I never do
because take one look at
my ruined smile and my
dead eyes and
see what that
cost me.

And I would’ve ended this there, in my draft of this poem
I wrote on May 30 2017
but these are better times. Or they’re
becoming so.
Anyway I have to believe they are now after
after longer than I’d ever gone without, after all if they
aren’t then why did
I do it at all?
or rather why did I
not do it?

these are better times
which I needed
because I
was at the end of my
fucking rope
strangling, dying
hanging from it.

Was.

Addiction

Late-stage, hopeless, dehumanizing
addiction
is the ugliest thing
I’ve seen
or can conceive.
Bright-eyed, awestruck, newfound
addiction
however
is the
saddest.

To meet eyes,
know,
to understand
to grieve for what they’ve yet to see
and can’t conceive
since at the start, it’s merely harmless,
innocent
bliss.
Then that moment peaks and passes—
Christ, does it go fast—
and by the time they see
what’s happening,
it’s long past way
too fucking
late.

To meet those eyes
might well kill me.

It’s an awful thing.