Who Drives this Bus?
I sobered up one day
And realized my life was going nowhere
I was sick of being sick
And tired of being tired.
I didnâ€™t like where I was
And didnâ€™t know where to go.
I stumbled into this bus.
I looked around and saw
Other people there.
I started talking to them
And they sounded like me.
The doors to the bus closed,
We began to move.
Slowly, the sun started shining
And the path became clear.
I couldnâ€™t see the driver,
But I was sure he could see me.
The people on the bus gave me a book,
I began to read.
I found I could talk to the driver
And he would answer me.
I became happy, joyful and free.
I knew where I wanted to go
And just how to get there.
I jumped up and ran to the front.
I told the driver,
Iâ€™ll take it from here.
I crashed the bus, I lost my book
And banged myself up pretty good.
The people on the bus picked me up.
They dusted me off and found my book.
I asked what happened, where did I go wrong?
They smiled at me and said
â€œThis isnâ€™t your bus, it belongs to the driverâ€
Original poems that are specifically recovery related
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