Shivering flames, whistling bark, ash like snow, illuminating the dark.

I ignore the cold, that stings my back, my ears inhale, the wind’s soundtrack.

My belly is empty, my head is full, of the choices I’ve played, no excuses to pull.

I perverted the path, to become an outlier, now I am addicted to the fire.

I feed the fire, to quench my senses, to divorce my spirit, from the choir of consequences.

The irony is fitting, feeding fire with my clothes, because what gives light, has no shadows.

The flame is famished, the smoke is slithering, into my nostrils, hope is dithering.

I forgot to blink, entranced by the motion, my eyes are arid, bleeding a teary potion.

The fire is an addiction, to pervert the path, fire is my relief, from nature’s wrath.

I know this is crazy, but listen to what I say…the only way to beat addiction, is walk away.

Leave the fire, and follow your breath, where your ancestors conquered death.

My toes are black, my lips are blue, my skin is frozen, my stare eschewed.

I die in the dark, I laughed at the irony, all this time, the fire was addicted to me.

The fire was addicted to me.  The fire was addicted...to ME.

“I wear pajamas to work mutha fucka...fuck you and your navy suit. You Punk-ass...”

James 3:6  
The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one's life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

I guess the first step is to admit I have a problem.  I am addicted to writing.