Kicking the Habit

Stress is my addiction --
worry, my heroin,
about anything
and everything unreal.
I rock myself to nausea,
endure the gastric burn,
fuel the furious rhythm
beneath my ribs.

I've tried the bitter spoon
of medicine --
it left me gagging
on the gray
of inner peace and stillness.

Withdrawal was Hell --
the choke of stifling air
inside an iron maiden
of boredom,
lined with cotton-soft nubs
instead of polished spikes.

I fight free of the bonds
of quiet
and sit alone, barebacked,
in darkness,
sweating, like a slave,
feverishly rowing
my master's ship
to nowhere.

Scott Speck
02/14/2002