Too late


This poem speaks volumes to me about the disease of addiction and how even with the consequences staring us in the face, we still use.

Making it write

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park-bench.jpg

He was on the bench where I usually sat,
his aging face shadowed by glasses and hat.
As he spoke I could sense that his soul was crumbling,
his opening words were cultured, but fumbling:
I kept on walking, ignoring his speech,
so he spoke up louder, my attention to reach.
“Excuse me” he faltered, “I don’t want to pry
but I see that you’re sad though I don’t know why.
If you could give a few minutes to a fool such as I,
I hope I can help and I’m eager to try”
He looked at his hands and he gave a sigh.
“I must make amends before I die.”

I paused to look back, and I left it too long
to turn away and walk right on.
He moved a foot or two to make room on the bench
and I sat myself down, though I reeled…

View original post 733 more words

Author: Recovery Reports

Recovery

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