From Time to Time it Crosses my Mind

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Nine months

Not ingesting

Still regarding

The burning

As perfume.

I leave sick-hungry.

The addict gives

In to their regrets

We fight with fervor

To repress ours.

It doesn’t make you high

It makes you sick

Then you just get used to it.

Winking in the huddled

Social circle outside the bar

The only common ground:

A five minute fuse every other hour

Killing quicker

Than the sand of time.

Age brings lessons.

Age brings accomplishments.

The riotous days

Awake to the same hurdles

That little crutch between your lips

Nothing more than

Psychological accumulation

Of pattern and reward.


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