I don’t remember when the first sip
touched the young, unassuming lip.
With the years, the memories fade,
with every passing day a beaten mind that jades.
The first time it tastes bitter,
leaving you with not much to titter.
You take another one, entirely by yourself
and suddenly you realise, that you are hardly yourself.
With time it becomes easy
and you don’t feel any queasy.
It starts always, with ‘just one’,
and without you knowing, moves to a ton.
Slowly and really, it tightens its grip
on our mind and body, sip by sip.
Before you know it, it stops feeling like pain.
And every effort to wean away only goes in vain.
Don’t ask me to share with you my drink,
it is not what you think.
For we must reap what we have sown,
my happiness is all yours and my sorrow, my own.
They say it is bad to drink,
and that it pushes you to the brink.
Yet, what one doesn’t know or think, is that it is sorrow –
that veritably causes you to sink.