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The bottom is a lonely place to awaken, undesirable and full of misery topped with a side of suffering. The downwards spiral fall happens in the blink of an eye, yet the climb out can last for what feels like a lifetime. This collection captures relapse, chaos, collapse, distant days become countless reaching out for help that ever-so-matter-of-factly fell upon both blind eyes and deaf ears simultaneously, miraculously with ease, each attempt made. The hopelessness, the complete breakdown and collapse of crisis as it unfolds, and the stigma that becomes worn thereafter beyond ones means and expiration.
This is the side of addiction unbeknownst to all but those who suffer first-hand this affliction. There is no love for the suffering from the sickness, no pity, nor any remorse. The sickness gives zero fucks. But best bet every failure is being noted, the score is being kept. In the absence of presence, those bottom dwellers become the prey to the immune's laughter at the incompetence displayed. The forgetting of equality starts with a judgement passed with the soul-less emptiness, it is a red wine stain on a freshly white carpet, beyond its contrast, remembering has never been a difficulty. Down here those not of us feed-off-of-us. We are their posterboards for requesting charity and the butts of their behind-the-closed-doors jokes.
Bottom Feeder is the third book of the freshly named poetry series by Miller titled Destined, but... Intended to be a series that captures the truth and emotion about the ugliness and bitter spitefulness of the world we occupy today, its plagues and descending hopes, especially bringing into the light to corruption of authority and suffering of addiction. This chapbook is the view from the very bottom, looking up through the glares beaming downwards up the hardened fragility. We want not, lest need not, yet find ourselves still so very indulged in their mindless competition intended to make us crave the desire to keep up with the Jones' down the street.
Woe are we. Guilty as can be. Bloodstained fingers cannot be washed of their toxicity. We murder hope to treasure dope while side-stepping the golden bricked road to dive down that damned rabbit hole.
Despair, paranoia, defeat, depression, anxiety. These describe the descent to the bottom one endures in their fall.
This short collection of poetry depicts that free-fall from grace and the overwhelming realization that awakens with the hopelessness that swallows one after leaving them almost paralyzed. It is a sink-or-swim kind of world with no mercy nor time for regret. This is an unique portrait painted in the words of experience, the cries of an addict, the pleading for mercy with a merciless God who hit the mute button too long ago. Why cannot we just awake to those once-upon-a-time better days? Weaknesses like these make you a walking bullseye.
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