Addict

Drugs,
Sex, and
Rock and
Roll just
don’t
do
it for
me
any more.
I need
ample
room to
breathe
in
lustful
amounts of
the stuff
that grows
ripe and
supple.
I need
the
kind
of stuff
that
dreams are
made
of, minus
the
fact that
I have
to
wake up
with
sleep in
eyes.

It needs
to be
free, torn,
and bent
to my
desire,
and if you
stand
too close,
I may
just
suck you
in without
warning.

If anything,
it needs
to
be close
to the
heat
of the equator,
and geographically
tied
to my origins like
Abraham, Douglass,
and Giovanni.

See,
what
I mean
to
say
is my
addiction
is real,
like oxygen
in
the trees,
or love
in those
hearts
and minds,
so if
you’re
up for it,
I’ll keep
my eyes
open
just enough
to see
you through
my
haze.

M.C. Davis

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