I take another hit and put my cigarette
out in a rusty tin ash tray
and let it sit as the ash sifts
like I do everyday when my tears threaten,
to spurt out like blood from a slit on my wrist,
I push them down with burning smoke,
eating away at my lungs,
yeah we all kill ourselves slowly,
just for fun.
Minutes tick by,
I guess I'm too scared to die,
quickly by my own hand,
so with nicotine I commit slow suicide,
I take a breath and suck in the smoke,
loving the burning in the back of my throat,
loving the buzz I can't get nowhere else,
random breezes feed my need,
the ciggarette eases the sucking greed,
of my heart and lungs,
temporarily the hole is filled,
with residual nicotine,
still buzzed from caffienne slurped this morning,
stabbing at the cramps of a fifteen year old's PMS.
I smoked in the bathroom at school,
and there was a sign on the mirror,
my life didn't become any clearer,
when I read "smoking: think it makes you look cool?"
I pulled myself way up,
till I was as tall,
as I could make myself,
and went and finished in the stall.