Old Habbits Die Hard...Some Don'T Die At All Poem by Kevin Lynch

We all have our bad habits, some pick their nose,
Other's crack their knuckles or wipe dirt on their clothes,
Some people get agitated and angry, others get sad,
We all have our own habits, and some are always bad.
Many smoke cigarettes, many more drink alcohol,
A minority do drugs and wake up with no recall.

Our habits are sometimes indulgent little things
We do frequently that can make us feel like kings.
We execute them without consideration or thought
As to what the consequences could be if we sought
To do the very things, so commonly and simply found,
But to a lot of habits we are unfortunately bound.

When people get emotional, like angry or sad,
Anxious, fearing, despairing, scared and glad,
They can do stuff, out of habit with no thought,
Stuff that's cold, chilling, calming and sometimes wrought.
Some run away from the problem, others drown their pain,
But no matter what we do, we're all the same.

Victims of our habits, puppets to their control,
We can try to resist, or we can fall down the hole
That they sometimes make for us, deep dark and dank,
One moment you're floating up high, next, you've sank
Down into a pool of pain your habits bring,
They laugh, violate, torture and tauntingly sing.

They wreak havoc on thy not-so-innocent soul,
These aren't just habits, these things make you whole.
But since they're part of you, they're hiding down deep,
Ready to strike without warning, and cause you to weep.
If you feed them their want, they grow stronger and stronger,
For every treacherous time they feast, they will reside longer.

They bury their roots deep into your body and mind,
Make themselves impossible to remove, but easy to find,
And when you're searching for something they will rise,
Force you to do evil, but promise good with their lies.
And because they've penetrated you so deep,
And since around your life they wickedly creep

You have no choice but to obey, forbidden another way
Of action because it's you they control, you do as they say.
But aren't these just habits? Can they really have such power?
They can and they do, but only if you let them flower...
But that's what we all do, we feed their disturbed desire
And we repeat and repeat, never learning to quench the fire.

But cracking your knuckles and leaving fridge doors ajar,
What disasters lie in these things, will they damage and scar?
Well if smoking is the habit, or drinking that poisonous beer
Then death can be the resultant...Quite an obtuse outcome I fear.
If the leeching habits are fed their melancholy meal
They you may be denied your flirtatious ability to feel.

Old habits die hard...Some don't die at all.
That is true for those addicted to that wicked alcohol.
But for the unlucky, it's not the drink, but a metallic blade,
Used to reduce the sorrow through which they wearingly wade.
Slicing their skin, letting their life-bringing blood pour,
Some are new to it, some have flirted with it before.

But as the horrid habit grows, so does the acidic act,
Soon enough you're cover in scars from the skin you hacked.
Cutting and bleeding now, every time more and more,
Your whole body aches with the cuts, suffering so sore.
But it's never ever enough, the addiction always calls
As you sever your delicate skin and around blood falls.

Until without thought, contemplation or console...
You take it two steps too far, and damn your soul.
Doesn't matter if it's your wrists or your innocent neck,
You'll bleed, fall, die... Then become a wretched wreck.
You fed your passion, with drops of your crimson red
Blood, and it engulfed you, until you lie there..... Dead.