Begin to forget your baggage, the problems that don’t matter anymore, the tears that cried themselves away, and the worries that are going to wash away on the shore of tomorrow’s new beginning

Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations. For all of these women, opium formed part of ordinary domestic life, used to manage pain, illness and distress, and valued for its power to sedate and tranquillise rather than for its stimulant properties or its ability to induce dreams and visions,” Crawford sums up, quoting the opening lines of Seward’s 1773 sonnet – “Thou child of Night and Silence, balmy Sleep / Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow!” Many times I felt as if even I didn't truly believe those words, let alone my son, but to keep my own sanity, and to relay the message that I believed in him, I kept on repeating them, refusing to enable, and focussing on my own life, instead of fretting and obsessing about his.We must remember the good moments we shared with [Deceased's Name]. The summers spent fishing by the lake, the family barbecues, and the laughter that filled our homes. Once the enabling stops, the recovery is given the opportunity to start. Recovery Poems From Famous Poets Select a quote that encapsulates the individual's spirit or outlook on life. This could be from a famous figure, spiritual text, or even something the deceased once said. Poems

He was passionate about his work and volunteered tirelessly at the local animal shelter. His quiet example of kindness and empathy will not be forgotten. [Deceased's Name]'s love for music transcended the bounds of his own life, as he taught his younger cousins how to play the guitar and the piano. He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight. I've lost count of the number of heartfelt letters I sent my son, as well as the many times I tried to talk to him. My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.

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Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch. The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously]. Curtis Fox: The way the poem ends is with a wonderful image. Describing her mother she says “She stood at this stove”, maybe the same stove the speaker is currently at, “She stood at this stove, / and with the care of the very drunk / handed him the plate”. I love that, “With the care of the very drunk”, because we’ve all seen that, when people are very drunk and they’re trying to be careful. At that point, the man, this lecherous lover referred to earlier in the poem, and the alcohol sort of merge into an image.