Addiction Poetry‎ > ‎


by John Ault
There is a monster that stalks across the face of the earth devouring everyone in its path.

This monster is not the funny kind that get shot by the Men in Black.

Its not even the scary kind taken on by Sylvester Stillone.

Or the kind that go bump in the night and hide under a child’s bed.

Its the real kind that cause grown men to put a bullet through their head

because when they had to look at it face to face, they decided it was safer to be dead.

Its a monster named Depression.


It will anesthetize with lies.

It’s twisted and tortured chameleon face masks a hundred shapes like hopelessness and despair.

A leech sucking the lifeblood out of it’s victims who have the audacity to ignore its venomous bite.

Or think it can be slain with a smile, or working harder, or taking a drink or having a wild night.

Not knowing that it feeds on those things, gaining strength to drag its victims to even deeper depths of its unending dark dismal abyss.


Victory over its irresistible force is with the sword of irony.

For the only way to kill it is to embrace it and listen to the messages that rumble deep in its churning soul.

It whispers about Loss and its cousin Anger kept in chains of propriety.

With a pen called memory, write across its forehead a name and a place; an event etched deeply as a wound in your heart.

Feel the pain and grieve that Loss with a grief that drains every drop of melancholy out of that monster.

Invite the Lord of the Past, Present and Future to touch, tame, transform, transfuse with hope,

that monster until its kitten shape is all that’s left,

and it curls up on your lap

and takes a nap.