Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1066346
by Dohm
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Crime/Gangster · #1066346
A poem on the progression of devious behavior.

There once was a time long ago,
naïve and somewhat pure;
Wanting nothing more to know,
evil remained unstirred.
But once began my sinful path
when came a cigarette to my hand.
And yet it seemed so innocent.

Again another day long gone,
my body stout and firm;
When another thing supposedly wrong
took it’s taunting turn.
Learning of my close friends creed
I grabbed the pipe and toked the weed,
And yet it seemed so innocent

A time for life’s change came soon,
sneaking in my knickers.
I made play for my own saloon
when I took a drink of liquor.
For my young mind it was clear,
from this action I need not fear
for it all seemed so innocent.

Pain brought on many occasion
by a temptress in my mist;
Depression rising as a horrid sensation,
I put the knife unto my wrist.
And though the blood run not too much,
I tended my wound with a careful touch.
And yet it seemed so innocent.

Again came a time still remembered,
my lungs now filled with tar.
Chilled by the days of December
and my ever present scar.
Regardless of this, a bed before me,
I let lust take my virginity.
And yet it seemed so innocent.

Night fell when it normally came
one day in my constantly changing life;
When plans of dark pleasures were made
and I stalked into the night
I had no qualms with streetlamp fun,
just another game in the absence of sun.
And yet it seemed so innocent.

Rolling seas of times expanse,
and many nights of scheming;
Have lead me to a permanent stance,
and vicious sort of dreaming.
That perchance may I live free!
And break these holds of captivity.
But until that time I waste away.

Smoking now a pack a day,
drinking when I can.
I see my money fall away,
breaking weed up in my hand.
And still is sex in my routine,
though only one is in that scene.
Yet it all looks so innocent.

Another day of sinful play,
with absence of morality.
Molding life as if it’s clay,
building my personality,
And still destroying my soul through time.
With lighthearted thoughts on serious lies,
and still it seems so innocent.
© Copyright 2006 Dohm (dohm at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1066346