The first time I smelled
coffee beans, I smiled.
I would smell the can
while Mom and Dad
drank that mysterious
black liquid that seemed
like the cup that all
adults must one day drink
and become serious.
Even when I forced myself,
years later, to like the taste,
I used the memory of it’s
smell to search the walls
of its flavor for the door.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Friday, December 09, 2005
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2005
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December
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- God
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- Watched Through Dark Windows
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- A Dream About Fear and Love
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1 comment:
This is a perfect description of my journey of addiction to nicotine
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