Sobriety seems to be a nemesis.
The reasons why I'm here are quite nebulous.
I can tell you that I am irritated, abraded,
I am worn-out, run-down, and somewhat jaded.
I'm here to speak of a rancid disease,
that is really the elixir to the potion I fiend.
What troubles me is that I'm reluctant,
to cure the cravings that are at a constant.
Opening up to strangers appears redundant,
but loved ones swear that it is important.
So here I sit, among other addicts;
to shut them out, shall do the trick.
Legs nervously crossed, slumped back in this chair;
its time for me to speak, beware.
Their eyes become shocked, mine do too;
as I begin unleashing excuse after excuse.
"Let me cut in, if you will?"
Interrupts a stranger, all goes still.
"We are not here to judge, we are all sick people."
All of a sudden, I do not feel so ill.