Followers

Saturday, 18 March 2017

Self-Inflicted

He's got the money and he's got the drugs:
Also protection from his connection's thugs -
Apart from that what has he got?
To and fro to the door - that's his lot.
My life I know is nothing to shout,
But at least I'm free to roam about:
Not like him - a prisoner in his own home
With so many friends, yet always alone.

His minutes turn to hours, his hours into days
Sucking his pipe in a deep, cloudy haze -
Fully aware of his precarious reckless ways
Regarding and disregarding his health.
 But more than caring about himself
Is his share of societies wealth.

Copyright Andrew Stevenson 18/03/2017

A sonnet.

Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.

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