Puff.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem of one of my favorite things. Sad, but true.

Submitted: March 06, 2008

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Submitted: March 06, 2008

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Sitting in a chair utterly exhausted,
Yet I can still bring a hand back and forth from my mouth.
The glow as I inhale,
And the dance of smoke as I exhale.
This little thing in my hand,
Causes so much fuss.
But as I sit here slouching,
It replaces my lunch.
The taste makes my tongue roll,
And I feel fulfilled.
The kreteks in their little box,
They are mine to enjoy.
In my pocket,
At work,
At the park,
In the Alley,
On my bed,
You will see a clove cigarette.
So with that and your controversy,
You ramble on to me,
The health risks and the jazz work of information.
Being the person I am,
Don't think I'm ignorant or unaware.
I know perfectly well the chemicals I'm inhaling,
And quite frankly I don't care.
I'll face quitting when it is needed,
Or hell if I just get tried of it I'll stop.
But for now my smoldering friend in my hand,
is much better than your tiring conversation.
Much better than your presence.
For your words don't ring true to this mass,
and I am walking to the beat of my own drum.
Puff. Sigh. Puff.


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