Array ( [sid] => 115616 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Trichotillomania (My Addiction) [time] => 2006-03-01 03:45:37 [hometext] => Trichotillomania is an obsessive-compulsive disorder where people feel compelled to pull out their hair. I'm thankful that I have it mildly enough... [bodytext] => The will to stop is everything to me,
yet it means nothing, all the same.
Now the only question to ask myself
is simply, "Who's to blame?"

Is this a sick affliction? A new kind of
addiction? Or is this simply a nervous tick,
to which I've no restriction?

Some days it seems as though my hands
are moving on their own --
as though they have a consciousness
of which they've never shown...
a consciousness that proves itself
much stronger than my own.

Since this began, I've done all that I can to stop it...
I've done all that I've thought to do. And though
a cure seems long overdue, this odd addiction,
I still pursue...and each day, it begins anew.

I wake with a promise, go to
bed with a promise...I've tried and I've cried
and I've bled for a promise...
yet a promise to stop and to end all the slaughter is
a promise so weak that it's written in water.

I hold my wrists, tie up my hair...
I offer God my saddest prayer.
And it always seems to work until
my will begans to tear.
Then soon enough, restraint will fade
and give in to thin air.

I pull my hair out without even knowing it...
tearing it out as fast as I'm growing it.
This is my addiction,
and I'm always showing it. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 1264 [topic] => 13 [informant] => Freak-of-the-Week [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 8 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Trichotillomania (My Addiction)


Trichotillomania (My Addiction)
Date: Wednesday, 1st March 2006 @ 03:45:37 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Freak-of-the-Week
The will to stop is everything to me,
yet it means nothing, all the same.
Now the only question to ask myself
is simply, "Who's to blame?"

Is this a sick affliction? A new kind of
addiction? Or is this simply a nervous tick,
to which I've no restriction?

Some days it seems as though my hands
are moving on their own --
as though they have a consciousness
of which they've never shown...
a consciousness that proves itself
much stronger than my own.

Since this began, I've done all that I can to stop it...
I've done all that I've thought to do. And though
a cure seems long overdue, this odd addiction,
I still pursue...and each day, it begins anew.

I wake with a promise, go to
bed with a promise...I've tried and I've cried
and I've bled for a promise...
yet a promise to stop and to end all the slaughter is
a promise so weak that it's written in water.

I hold my wrists, tie up my hair...
I offer God my saddest prayer.
And it always seems to work until
my will begans to tear.
Then soon enough, restraint will fade
and give in to thin air.

I pull my hair out without even knowing it...
tearing it out as fast as I'm growing it.
This is my addiction,
and I'm always showing it.

This poem is Copyright © Freak-of-the-Week


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