Make Art, Not War

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Excavated from my smoking days

The smoke fills my mouth
enters my cavities, my lungs
full of poison. I justify the levels
of contamination by saying
"it's better than this" or "it's
better than that" like a junkie.
But it hits the spot.
A twinge in a long dead limb, a
feeling through the numbness
like a zombie.
I confess to messing around with this
but it's better than
Living just gets long anyway,
when really it's quiet short.
We are all on our way somewhere
and this just fills the time.

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