My Poetic Trilogy

I wrote this collection as a journey through addiction—not one specific form, but the many ways it can take hold. These poems sit in the space between wanting to let go and fearing what remains without it. Moving through doubt, awareness, and fragile recovery, they reflect the quiet, often unseen battle within. At its core, this is not just about addiction, but identity—about facing tomorrow and learning, slowly, who we are without what once defined us.

A journey through fear, release, and learning to stand

I. The Fear Between Days

They fear my addiction.
I fear life without it.

They say, “try again tomorrow.”
Then tomorrow comes—
and I whisper it again.

I fear the silence it would leave,
the space I’d have to feel.

They tell me to wait for tomorrow,
as if time alone can heal
what I hide inside.

They say,
just because you fail today
doesn’t mean you’ll fail every day.

There will always be a tomorrow.
But I wonder—
who am I
in a tomorrow
without my addiction?

Failure is only a moment,
not a life.

— Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

II. When the Chains Begin to Loosen

They named my fears
before I ever could—
numb, escape, regret, shame.

I wore them quietly,
like second skin,
like something I deserved.

Control slipped
through trembling hands,
and I called it comfort.

Silence grew louder,
filled with overthinking,
with voices that whispered—
you are not enough.

Loneliness sat beside me,
patient, familiar,
never asking me to change.

I broke in places
no one could see,
hid it beneath routine,
beneath another tomorrow survived.

They still say,
“try again tomorrow.”

But tomorrow feels different now—
not lighter,
just clearer.

Because somewhere
between the fear
and the fall,

I saw it—

the chains were never locked,
only held.

And maybe letting go
isn’t losing myself,
but meeting
who’s left
when the noise fades.

III. Learning to Stand Without It

The first days felt louder
than anything before—
no escape,
no numbing,
no place to hide.

Just me—
and everything
I had buried.

Silence didn’t comfort me,
it exposed me.

Every thought unfiltered,
every doubt
sharp as truth.

I reached for old habits
out of instinct,
hands remembering
what I was trying to forget.

But something stopped me—
not strength,
not courage…
just a pause.

And in that pause,
I stayed.

Not healed,
not whole,
but still here.

The voices still whisper—
not enough,
not ready,
not strong.

But they don’t own me
like they used to.

Loneliness still visits,
but it no longer speaks
for who I am.

And the chains—
though I feel their weight—
no longer decide
where I stand.

They said,
“there will always be a tomorrow.”

For the first time,
I didn’t fear it.

Because tomorrow
isn’t something I escape into—

it’s something
I’m learning
to walk into
without it.

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

I bring a personal perspective to this work. In my younger years, I experienced what I would describe as softer forms of addiction—smoking and drinking more than I should. I made the decision to step away from both, and it has now been over 30 years. While those experiences shaped my understanding, I would never claim to fully understand the depth of more severe addictions.

I later worked with a charity supporting individuals facing these challenges, where I served as a workplace trainer, helping people rebuild confidence and develop skills for employment. That experience deepened my respect for the complexity of addiction and the strength it takes to face it. This collection is written with that awareness—grounded in experience, but guided by humility.

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