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.