Watching as he crumbles down, He waits
to feast upon his moulder and decay.
He finds it in his eyes, a perished shade
amongst the cadence fragmenting to flakes.
For his fate he’ll take upon His varmint veil
earned when listlessly wondering for days.
The darkest of those could write chapters they say
of addictions and a legacy repaved.
For his sins He’ll provide purgatory again
just to see the hues of fatality it makes.

Now his skin no longer feels the rain
and harder it becomes to stay awake.
With wider eyes perhaps he’ll starve the grave
or with a craving he’d find it just the same.

Jordan Baker


Pressure & Addiction

Isn’t it strange how bad experience and life lessons can inspire magic? Whether it be the highs of overcoming or simply a piece of writing which stands out from your repertoire.

One thing I can’t deny about myself is that I have an addictive personality. This in no way is a good thing. From simple things such as coffee to more complex mental addictions such as the desire I’m burdened with every day to be the best I can be. This includes being the best writer, being in good shape and achieving all I can with little patience to enjoy life as I try to attain it. I’ve reached points on different occasions where the pressure I put myself under becomes too much, leading to breakdown and comforting addiction in a viscous circle.

Pressure. It’s a word we hear every day and a feeling we endure every day in one way or another, so why do we do it to ourselves? Here I am working towards publishing my second book, working towards a deadline making me feel the need to get a lot of work done and write a masterpiece every day. I talked in an earlier blog about how inspiration and motivation don’t come easily to me at all; I have to go looking for it. Yet I sit optimistically with a blank page in front of me every chance I get, under pressure to get something good written. The ironic thing is I’d be getting more done if I took my own advice and went for a walk and let the world inspire some words instead of wasting hours feeling like a failure.

I’ve had various addictions and problems during my 21 years on this planet, many I will not discuss, but one I’m happy to admit to is smoking. That’s right, I’m a smoker addicted to fitness.. Ironic, huh? I do love irony. Isn’t it also ironic then, that this horrid habit is a sole reason for a lot of my success? When I take these walks or simply stand and assess the world, more often than not I’ve got a cigarette in my hand at the same time. Another thing you probably didn’t know about me is that the first two pieces of writing I had published were short stories. Sure, I’d written poetry, but I never ‘got it right’ so to speak. The first piece of poetry I had published was the one which I still believe to this day changed my life. I finished it and in that moment I knew I was a poet foremost. That poem? ‘Cigarettes in the Snow’ of course. It was a low point in my life, Christmas was the season, I was in love, but not the good replicated sort. Somewhere in the world was that person I though was perfect, something I never to this day told them in completion. And there I was, feeling all of this, alone, miserable, broken, most of all not good enough.. and cold, very cold, stood outside in the snow smoking a cigarette. There it is- two of the worst aspects of my life, depression and addiction in one moment changed my life.

At the end of the day, if I was happy all of the time the only emotion I’d have to put into my writing is one of ‘I’m doing alright today’. I wouldn’t have gotten two books out of that. If I’m honest, I’ve got no idea why I’m writing this. I’m not going to preach about how we should accept ourselves as we are and thrive in it. I’m merely thinking. In life we hurt ourselves with pressure and addiction, yet they can give us experience and accomplishment in the end.

And I suppose what I’m thinking is-
Irony: isn’t it wonderful?