It’s not that I don’t want to,
enjoy your fine substances,
be them oral, or nasally ingested;
I believe I’ve had my share,

And the incessant smoke,
of all sorts of flavors and scents,
That too;
I have filled my lungs.

Strange plates,
full of material for delight,
make no sense,
to a belly that is full.

And how I would occupy,
a room full of company,
if only:
I hadn’t cut myself off.

I have tried these means,
and what good they have done,
but sorry i am,
for no better i feel.

Engaging your lust,
would befit a king,
if not for the harlem,
I gave away.

Indulging imagination,
might be a nice trip,
had not I taken,
the tour a few too many.

Give in to the ego,
only resort,
I just as "me,"
apparently not enough.