A Journey Past Our Solar System is mostly confessional poetry of my life in the few last years, structures of a dysfunctional family, in the middle of dealing with mental illness. A tragedy in the making of my brain turning into coal, ready to burn...
And rip the packet is open, the fresh smell of tobacco. My fingers gliding the paper along to seal the roll.
Click, heat among the cigarette, entering my lungs. The serenity you feel after the exhale is the most addictive part.
That's what makes it so hard to quit, it some how just eases the endless spirals you would call stress. But in the end, it always returns the need, the desire,
the sickening mucky feeling to have another.
Disgusting I know. Holding it in my hand and I feel gross but relaxed at the same time.
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