Composition 116

The cigarette on my hand,

It kills me, I know…

Slowly it does…

But it’s there…

What’s the point in living anyways…?

Through cold lonely nights…

Through heart beating fast and palm wet…

Through a turmoil of the being

Through a fight I have to stand…

Through false dreamy days…

Of the truth unspeakable…

Of flesh burning desire…

It burns

Smoke inhaled and exhaled…

The cigarette on my hand…

It kills me, I know

But where were you?