Overdose

Pictures create nostalgia,

Which leads to broken hearts,

From feelings that are now broken,

And these pictures serve as injections,

Of pain into my veins.

Treat them as a drug,

Because while these memories once brought a thrill,

Now they only cause my pain,

And degrade away from the present.

And I ask myself now;

Am I addicted to nostalgia?

Or just these memories that come with it;

Am I addicted to being sad?

And I ask myself now,

Does that even matter?

For with my addiction,

There is no rehabilitation--

And whichever I'm addicted to,

Is simply an analysis--

One which leads to no solution.

And I waste my time,

Pondering which it is.

I waste my time,

In feelings of sorrow,

And sadness,

And brokenness.

Should I give up?

I search in my quest,

For hope.

And consistently I'm looking,

For a reason not to give up.

A reason to smile.

A reason to breathe.

This quest is difficult,

And yet I am persistent.

But persistence can be perceived as foolishness.

So, does this endeavor make me foolish?

And while I live on in my disease,

The disease that is this addiction,

Life injects me with more sadness,

And these metaphorical veins collapse.

For I cannot take anymore.