To finally cut down that pole

On which you’ve been impaling yourself again and again.

To reckon with the demons you could never seem to shake

To heal the wound you’ve been trying to drown with the bottle

To grapple with the sense of inadequacy that makes you work so hard

To get a grip on your soul.

Addiction is more a posture of the heart

Than an action of the body

Or a complex of the mind –

It’s a practice of self-medicating

That in the end leaves you sicker than before.

Greater than a thousand likes on your picture,

Or the sound of hundred pairs of hands clapping in your honour,

People far and wide being impacted by your work-

Greater than all of that

Are the private and vital victories

That few may ever know of.