War of the Gods


How can it be that You’ve annihilated me?

I sat with you

I loved you

I gave you Everything in me

Yet I was met by the Devil

(who you do not believe in)

But I do

Because He came through you

To cut me

To rip my open heart out of my chest

And devour it

Shocked-frozen, I watched Him chew it slowly

Grinding, piercing, masticating

while i became colder and colder

I feel my own demons rise up

Clawing for a piece of my already-swallowed heart

Hardening me

Darkening my Light

That somehow, Something Bitter thinks,

Keeps Fucking Living in me

Soulless creatures hiss in my ears

Don’t let anyone else in.


Let us kill any human thing you have.

Let us help you, friend.

Trust only us.

Be alone.

You always have been.

You always will be.


But I know mySelf well enough now!

My warm feelings will Rise Again

And sweep away all these Shadowed men

I will steal back my digested heart from the Devil’s belly

And I will make it work again.


The Sick Girl

She walks in with her too-loose sweats

Flat ass

Casual tee

Eyes darting about

Until they reach their destination:

The cookie display

The snack-tray

She fingers a bag of BBQ chips

Pursing her lips

Hating and loving the salty sweet things

She gets to the front

She’s ordering


I can always spot The Sick Girl

I see her mind darting internally

As fast as those eyes

A million thoughts about

What to buy, what to buy!?

But one bag would never be quite the thing

To stop the Pastry Sirens from their incessant singing

And One Cookie is like blasphemy

I mean, really?


Really. You must be joking.

As if there were such a thing as One anything

When it comes to her Insatiable Feeding

She can’t fill the hole in her Soul

With any material

Or flour-and-sugar-filled thing

But she’d get an A-plus for trying

And trying

She orders safely ‘til she can go crazy

“Non-fat latte, please.”

Yep. I can always spot The Sick Girl.

She’s at the supermarket now

Free to unleash the Craving Beast

With her unwashed hair in her face

Or Hat or hoodie

Attempting to be incognito as her bony fingers throw in

5 more boxes of Lucky Charms

Or Haagen Daz

Or chocolate-caramel bars

Her manicured nails distracting from

Her knuckle scars

On fingers that help her get every last bit


They help her shout in that silent kind of shout

Because she doesn’t know what the hell to do

But try and numb the pain all out

I would try and meet her gaze and say

Everything will be okay

But the truth is I don’t know

And she thinks she’s hidden, anyway

There, on bright florescent light display

In aisle 3

She’s standing, then, in front of me

The clerk tries to make conversation

As she scans across things no one should eat

The Sick Girl can’t mutter back a single word

‘Cuz talking about the weather is just absurd

When her life is forever hanging in the balance

And you might Judge her but I do not

For we should never mistake Pain for Malice

I walk out, I say a prayer

One day she will be the one in line behind

The Sick Girl.

(Or better yet, there won’t be a Sick Girl to be in line behind.)


The long drought is over.

The Dry all dried up.

The water spills over

My parched, thirsty cup.

Inspiration, She fills me –

Quenches my fires.

Dehydration – a Teacher –

Who finally retires.

I waited in the desert.

I stayed with my pain.

Knowing the suffering

Would one day bring rain.

My soul sings again.

Her Lover returns!

The blaze of Creation

Brings Life as She burns.

This Thing I can’t Own…

But just let it pass through

Til the last embers die out;

Til flood turns to dew.

Then, dried up again.

Inspiration, She’s gone.

I wait in the desert.

She’ll come back along…


Meeting the God Within

Let me in, let me in.

She said,

You only thought I was dead.

But I have been here

burning deep deep deep in your soul.

I have been the Thing that has held you close.

No I never let you go.

When you dove down to the depths of your

Saddened, lost soul;

When you used and you used and you used

And you used;

When you used and you used and it went on like this…

I brought you – Ragged – back from the abyss.

And still you were Wild, you clawed and you cried

Screeching your threats, still – I stayed by your side.

You did everything you could to push me away –

Humankind’s hero – Sabotage of Self,

Oh yes how I know her, I know her so well!

She, forcing me to see the Ugly in you

Over everything else –

Making me see the pain of abuse.

Begging me to Condemn you

Like you condemned yourself.


Miss Sabotage has no idea who I am:

The Other Side of your soul –

The side you can’t bear to see.

(We all know how it’s easier to believe

All the Ugly Things.)

But I Live.

I glow, I reach, I rise –

Throw light on your pain, so you’ll learn to thrive.

I let you hate me and shriek as I stay by your side

You writhe til you Break and surrender your pride.

We hold on together til you’re down on your knees

Complete abdication, heart pouring out pleas:

A new cry from your lips:“Let me worship you, please.”

But I simply smile and help you to stand.

“Look down,” I say.

You hold your own hand.


One Last Time..

Just one last time…

I promise it will be the very last time.

Just this once and then I’ll stop.

What’s the harm in one last time?

Done it thousands of times before.

Really what’s the harm in just one more?

If I’m gonna have to stop forever.

If the rest of my days I’ll live without!

If the Just One More is replaced with Never…

Then what is all the fuss about?

Tomorrow is a new beginning.

Tomorrow is the day I’ll start.

So tonight I’d better do it up,

Fill myself with toxic art –

The kind that makes the artist feel…

Without producing any art.

A gift, disgraced.

Heads shake, “A waste.”

You must have been in so much pain.

Remember that song you sung?

The one about The Greatest Love?

A shame you never really heard the words you sung.

Because you were worthy of every one.

Just like everyone.

And I bet you said,

“One last time,” tonight.

Just one last time.

I promise it will be the very last time.

And it is sad –

How you were



People often ask why “artistic types” seem more susceptible to addiction than the average Jane. I believe the answer lies in the fact that people with “genius,” defined as “having exceptional intellectual or creative ability,” have a much thinner veil between their individual psyches and the Collective Unconscious. *I think it is also important to note that I truly believe all people have genius of some sort. The difference with people who identify as artists is simply that they are aware of their genius/gift/talent. Those who feel they have nothing artistic to give are usually disconnected from their abilities or have yet to uncover them. This disconnection usually stems from fear of inflation, trauma, or ignorance; but that is another blog.

This “easier access” artists have to the mysterious Unconscious can be illustrated by looking at how art is produced: images and symbols flow through the artist and manifest in form. We often speak of an artist as a medium and refer to his or her talent as a “gift.” A gift means it is something given to them, through something else; in general, there exists in most of us a belief in something greater than simply the power or will of an individual. That “something greater” might be a belief in the power of science and biology, The Universe, God, or The Self (capital “S” indicating the “higher Self” or inner wisdom). Its importance lies in the fact that it is the belief in Something More that allows many addicts the ability to recover. Therefore, if this gift of genius is not channeled in a productive, healthy way, it will seek expression in an unhealthy form. Why? Because genius just needs to express. It does not know the difference between healthy and unhealthy expression. This is why a gift is often referred to as a curse and vice versa. (In fact, it is the ego’s job to discern how to use genius and this is precisely why developing a strong ego – an ego capable of serving a person’s deepest core values – is so vital to having a fulfilling life.) Thus, if genius is stifled, it will find a way – any way – to come out.

Let’s take the archetypal example of “The Crazy Art-eest.” We all know this person. We see him or her in history books, films, myths, and quite regularly in the Entertainment Industry: Van Gogh and his ear! Amy Winehouse and her heroin. Albert Einstein and his cocaine. Kurt Cobain and his depression, drugs etc. The list is endless. In each example, we can see the two sides of genius: when it is channeled productively, we get a glorious painting or soul-warming song; when it becomes too much, we get insanity in various forms. These people were thisclose to The Unconscious. These artists see symbols and images and create masterpieces from them; at the same time, they also suffer the agony of being in such close proximity to something so powerful. They often get inundated with ideas, some which become manifest and others which, for natural human limits’ sake, cannot be. How an artist handles his or her creative daemon will determine whether the creativity is a helpful “spiritual daemon” the way in which Socrates referred to it; or whether it becomes an actual demon – something that claws at the heart and soul, begging expression. If the artist herself becomes too overwhelmed, frustrated, afraid, inundated or whatever – she may rebel or shut down; in other words, stifle the creative flow. This shutting down, if not done consciously, will eventually kill her. What do I mean by shutting down consciously? Examples of consciously switching the “off” button may include meditation, yoga, exercise, writing, seeing a movie or other healthy forms of release. Unconscious shutting down or rebelling is usually more reactive (thus less conscious) and is often what propels creative types to “check out” through using their substance-of-choice and numbing the influx of creativity which washes over them. Much of the work of the addict/artist is learning how to manage these unpredictable energies.

Through this lens, we can see why Creative Types would have more trouble with addiction – they have a higher libido, are closer to the edge of the great abyss; often, they feel in a very deep, unique way. It also appears that the more genius and ability a person is gifted with, the harder it is to tame the flood of art that flows through the artist.

So, in the end, are “Creative-Type-Addicts” all that different from the “General Addict?” It is my bias that they may have more work to do than non-creative types (or people who have not found their gifts), since they seem to have more “coming at them.” They may have to find more outlets, and use them more often. Creative Type Addicts are forced through their gift to relate to the messages they receive from it on a regular basis, and it can be very tiring, drawing up feelings of resentment or exasperation. That said, the work all addicts have to do in order to recover is pretty – ahem – sobering.

One thing I do know: each of us has within us the ability to heal. Not just addicts. Everyone. Most of us need a little help to do it (and even more of us hate admitting that), but we all need to be healed in one way or another. There is a strength that resides within us that is profound. Those who feel weakest are often the strongest of all – but this strength will only be discovered when we can turn inward and face what we fear; when we can understand that there is gold hidden in the pain that is ours for the taking. When that is accomplished – and it is no easy, quick task – we will truly be transformed.

And, finally, if you are an addict reading this and think there is no hope – I would tell you that hope is the fire in your heart that drew you to read this…and my wish for you is that you find what that Next Right Step is for you. And, with courage in your heart, that you take it.