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 fade 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 judgment passed with the soul-less emptiness, it is a red wine stain on a fresh white carpet, beyond its contrast, remembering has never been a difficulty. Down here those not 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 the 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.
