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Addiction is adrenaline shot into your brain, that temporarily numbs the angst and pain, that turns the tension in the pit of your stomach, of claws tearing at your gut, to the pleasure of erection, of tingling and tickling sensations, of surging blood gathering up and urging you on to f*ck. Whatever it is you must f*ck, so the body says, so the mind relays, so the well-manicured hand strays, knowing it will pay the price. The addled mind of an addict is the only way to describe this brain of mine. No, not for drugs or alcohol, for cumming and spending useless money on virtual funding. How much of this is illness and how much is who I am? What sets me apart from things I do, how to do more than I can? I’m sure I’m not the only one that thinks these anxious thoughts. I’m nearly certain others out there have got just what I’ve got. I’m quite sure, maybe, probably, there’s others out there lost like me.

About this poem

Yup. It’s not pretty, but it’s real. And I’m not the only one… maybe…. probably.

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Submitted by WritingNoob on October 29, 2021

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    "Untitled9" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 21 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/113048/untitled9>.

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