The House Built on Addiction

This is the house built on addiction.

A two-faced, self-contained carnival of lies,
each player seeking their own agenda.

The mummers and troupe members
trade in public, barter in secret;
the prices and goods run the gamut-
money to trust to drugs to secrets to favors.

The allied ties, some secret, some open,
shuffle day to day, issue to issue.

Although they all play along nicely,
pretending to be a family, a unit, a home,
they are only in the heart of the storm.

Their trials, their games and facades,
agendas, addictions and outright evil,
all such disguised as saintly gold.

My rhythm is almost daily,
eclipsing instantly every light in me:
Anger, rage, fluctuations of emotion,
forcefully mastered,
but grudgingly silenced.
Like lightning, deadly force eliminated;
shadows, heartache and darkness repeating,
appearing like a flash, the anger and pain
all strike, only to vanish like smoke...

As the carnival continues around me,
the maelstrom juggernauting inside me,
all that is left to me is a lost confusion,
oncer more.

And once more,
I attempt to bind the threads
unraveling in life, heart and mind,
and attempt to rebuild that person
I am, but had lost long ago.

For such things are our own to deal with,
or else perish in flames, in weakness.

Survival in a civilized jungle
leaves no room for such weakness.

And though I must keep my heart alive,
the house built on addiction
is not a home at all.