My New Addiction

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is about how I got into writing..And how I was immediatly addicted to writing and poetry.

Submitted: October 29, 2008

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Submitted: October 29, 2008

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My Addiction
 
My mind was blank as I wrote a message through MSN Messenger to my mother explaining why I had not gone to school again. How could I tell her that I had to stay and clean the house because my dad and his girlfriend had gotten lazy again? My biological sister, Hannah had gone to day care and Tamara’s daughters, Taylor and Mariah had gone to a friend’s house and they would be back soon. I was feeling lost and so alone in my empty thoughts. I did not believe I could feel any lower and I wondered why I felt the constant need to lay in the basement and waste away to nothing. I had been an avid reader since I could remember and my thirst for knowledge was insatiable. My mother had taken out children’s’ encyclopedias and books from the library in hopes that I would be satisfied; I always wanted more. My mother had broken me and abused my mind and soul, but my father had done the same with the many bruises all over my body. I was living with my father and sister because my mother had lost her mind from the Percocet withdrawals ad the need to have a stream of men coming to and from her house. At least my father was mostly sane. We were in a duplex home on Christina Street and it had once been a clean and beautiful home, but had been turned into a home for disaster.
 
It was evening and I believe it was June 2003. The air was warm and sincere, but it could not comfort the war silently going on inside of me. A war! A war was what was going on between my family and me! And then it hit me. I would write a poem! But how could I with no inkling of how to write a GOOD poem? My computer in front of me and a head flooded with ideas as though light was shed in the dusty, unused corners of my mind. With my computer I wrote. My fingers flew across the keyboard like a flock of birds trying to find shelter from an oncoming storm. And that’s exactly what I was. I was a bird finding for once in my sorry existence. ; A time when I could escape to my mind for comfort rather than pain. The poem was apart of me, but then I stopped because I lost the artistic thoughts in me as through my tap pouring creativity had suddenly stopped and I was only on three lines! This experience was also the very time I stopped believing in religion and came to know it as shelter for those who were the unworthy of a place called ‘Heaven’. My father, his Mormon Christian girlfriend, Tamara came home. And the fragile yet protective word I had begun to build for myself came crashing down around me like the city of Troy.
 
Following behind them was my young sister Hannah and Tamara’s children Taylor and Mariah. “Still looks like a pigsty in here, Zoey! On that damn computer all day. Get making supper.” My father’s voice held a note of threat. My father was a man of about 5’8’’, he was muscular, but that was due to the numerous years of working for Quality Door Hardware. He had sandy-brown hair with only a bit of grey forming on his 42 year old head and his moustache rested on his upper lip. His steel grey eyes met my copper brown ones and I rose to my feet and went to the kitchen. Tamara was a very large woman and towered at a full six feet. She had a small, sweet voice that was constantly mumbling prayers and oval-shaped glasses that covered her green eyes. Her long, curly, brown hair was in its usual tangled mess. I went through the cupboards and took out Hamburger Helper and some hamburger and thus began to cook supper. Although my three siblings were being obnoxiously loud I could still hear my thoughts. During supper the water faucet of creativity turned on again. I felt wave after wave of inspiration and I could hardly wait to get back to writing. Tamara asked me what I was thinking about and I said nothing for fear that she would not understand.
 
My poem came easily as though it were meant to be written by me and I knew no one had written anything like it before. I knew at that moment I was to be a writer; to express my soul. I had paper as my shield and the pen as my sword. I was allowed Tamara to read my poem and she came to the conclusion I was disturbed with a talent for writing, but I didn’t care. I had found my Addiction. And the poem was this:
 
Left alone in darkness,
Left alone in pain,
Left alone in silence as I quickly go insane.

Breathing slows, breathing becomes cold,
In this darkened world, secrets are never told.

Blood becomes blue,
Blood becomes black,
As I plead for the light to come back.

Left alone in fear,
Left alone in sadness.
As I pass insanity going into pure madness
Zoey Haskell
Tuesday, September 23, 2008


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