Saturday, December 17, 2011



I never drank my fill of wine or beer or heady liquor,
Except for once, when I was young and still in youthful vigor.
I never took more drags than one on weed that passed around,
I never smoked more cigarettes than one in a daily round.
I snorted once some powder, when a post-doc in the west,
And knew at once that this, for me, was clearly not the best.

I drink a cup or two a day of coffee, sweet, with milk,
And tea aplenty when I eat of noodles and their ilk,
And I'm addicted now, for years approaching nearly seven,
To writing, typing verses that have more of hell than heaven.
And I had written chapters long on states of schools in trouble,
But more than all of this I've spent on working shifts of double.

If only I were paid for both, I could have now retired,
But since I never was or could, I've just grown old and tired.
And when I cease from working, why—the demons in my brain
That never had a place before, play tricks I can't explain.
For conflicts deep have entered and have ravaged the seat of reason,
And there's no drug to cure that wound, nor hope of a kinder season.

So now I understand, perhaps, addictions all around,
For when the peace within is lost, then devils do abound.
And all around, the manic race, and all around, the wars,
The destruction that is senseless, mad, come not from baleful stars,
But from addictions deep, profound that rise from lack of peace,
And till that peace within is found, these conflicts will not cease.

Babui / Arjun
2011 December 17th, Sat.

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