She walks through empty streets,
in all the dark and the deceit,
meets the man in the crowd,
with the mulit-colored mirrors,
and she slips him the bills,
he passes her the skills,
to be high with addiction to the heroin.

He walks down the halls,
through the rises and the falls,
And he lays awake each night,
and he lays in bed each day,
with the bottle in his hand,
and he sways each time he stands,
to be drunk with addiction to the alcohol.

She dips the brush in ink,
and with her hands begins to think,
onto canvas virgin white,
ready and waiting for her stroke,
now she creates the beauty new,
like wild birds her brushes flew,
to be revered with addiction to the painting.

He stretches muscles tense,
and re-cheks his common sense,
then he bursts onto the feild,
fighting with his team of seven,
when the ball contacts his foot,
and his face as dark as soot,
to be honored with addiction to the game.

She cries upon the floor,
with the lock sealing the door,
and the razor in her wrist,
and the trying to resist,
trying always just to stop,
and she feels ready to pop,
to be bled with addiction to the self-injury.

I slide my hands as spiders trained,
releasing words that pour like rain,
across the keys as pianist would play,
the one way I thrive from the night to the day,
and nothing can catch them now that they are free,
these words are my comfort and a part of me,
to be cherished with addiction to the poetry.