A Slave To His Habit & Poetry Beckons Me

A SLAVE OF HIS HABIT.

His eyes red like that of a hungry lion With sweat pouring out of every hole in his body Ants moving over his body Now seeing men like ghosts His gait now uncontrollable as reeds blown away by a cyclone The whole body jerking like that of an epileptic.

With a little puff of smoke. Just a cup of liquor. Merely a little sting of pentazocine, a swallow of tramadol. Just a sip of cough syrup... That's how it all started.

Sweet as honey it was at the genesis, Feeling good about himself Thinking it'll stop at once But his mind wanderered again, and again. Until he can't resist again. Even now willing to spend his last penny.

to satisfy this urge. He has now become a slave, a slave of his own habit.

POETRY BECKONS TO ME.

I said, I am a simple person. And don't want a disruption in my mind, so I'll stick to my old friend-nonfiction And move closer to fiction, my distant friend. Still deeply engrossed in my thought: Poetry beckons to me, and visited me as an acquittance.

I had thought he would be a cruel friend - issuing stern commandments, which I dare not break. Always asking me to write in ancient tongues, languages I would prefer not to speak.

But he said to me, I am not as difficult as you think I also speak to the simple, And the unambiguous in thought,

If you cannot now write in sonnet, limerick and ode. You can always start with free verse.

Olaewe David Opeyemi, a medical doctor by training with keen interest in all aspects of creative writing. He is from Nigeria, West Africa. His twitter is @DROPEY01