Conviction of an addict

Exhaling this smoke makes my knees feeble,

The ache it creates can't be replaced,

A sad time again, slow and slippery I would slide,

Holding every stick like it's my last.

He said to me, be careful for something this much is bad,

I looked upon the confused old man and replied,

If I would fall to the ground then I would to do it with my stick,

The painful smile on his face told me all,

But my stick can't be left untouched for a day.

As a child I looked at those with it as though they knew nothing,

I said to myself it was meaningless,

I told others that it wasn't creative and won't bring wealth but take your time and money,

Then I knew in my heart that to teach I must have tried,

So here I am with the stick which I judged others for.

The tip feels light and every draw is magical,

It has created patterns which only I can understand,

I feel foolish and I must stop,

How can I?

I am just a little man which the brush of a painter,

Creating various strokes day and night,

My stick has become my addiction,

Here in front of the judge I plead guilty,

Today I am the difference between shades.

With my eyes gazing on the floor,

The judge has convicted me of been creative.

Call me the ADDICT