domingo, 11 de dezembro de 2011

The dirty air.

The dirty air

The last cigarette
made its way in between my fingers
to the tip of my lips.

My breath provoked the flame
when its end met the fire,
flashing another regret.
But what do I know.

I absorbed the smoke,
along with the pain,
the truth, and the longest day.

I drew in the mist,
the smell I hated the most.

I breathed out the fog
from my mouth,
from my system,
but it’s too late now.

My lungs compromised,
my throat adjusted.

Another excuse.
I wasn’t adapting,
I was influenced.




And again.

And again.

Until I lost my count.

One that turned into a dozen
and many more.

But I see their faces dissolved
with the smoke.
Away they go,
with the pain,
the troubles.

Another addiction I can’t handle.

I lost my senses.

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