Book Re-Rewritten
Fifteen years carved in blood and relapse sweat,
Needles of memory, bottles I still regret.
Rehab beds, cold floors, night terrors on repeat,
But I crawled out the gutter—refused to accept defeat.
My book ain’t pretty, it’s written in scars,
With blackout ink and jailhouse bars.
Darkness raised me, but it didn’t own my soul,
I fought through the madness and took back control.
I’ve buried friends, I’ve faced my ghost,
Tasted death closer than I ever toasted.
Demons whispered, \"Quit\"—but I spit in their face,
Every relapse a scar, every scar a trace.
I’m not that broken mother on the bathroom floor,
Not that woman begging pain for one hit more.
I’m raw, rebuilt, stitched together in rage,
A warrior bleeding on a brand-new page.
Enemies laughed, but I rose from the grave,
Addict stereotype? Already engraved.
I smashed it, burned it, buried it deep,
Now I sow what I bled—what I fight, I keep.
This mouth is venom, this pen is a blade,
I slice through lies with every verse I’ve made.
Rain don’t drown me, thunder fuels my fire,
The storm is my stage, and pain—my choir.
This book ain’t redemption tied up with a bow,
It’s raw survival, it’s grit, it’s growth.
Fifteen years later, I’m still here, unashamed,
And I’ll keep rewriting ’til they carve my name.