Heavenly Mother,
I crave for a god damned smoke,
This world tires me,
Breaks me,
I can't drive this flesh cycle no more,
Fueling caffeine to witness this empty massacre of judges behind faux screens,
Spewing trash from their eyes as if the world rotates around them,
Oh, heavenly mother,
Thy universe,
This cruel world makes me want to light up the habit,
But my sober month's a seven,
It's just not worth it to slowly kill myself with shit rolled onto a scrap of paper.
I sometimes wish this world was just one single cigarette, so I could take it in my fingertips and stare it down and say, "Your bitterness doesn't matter to me anymore."
And I toss it to the ground, stomping on it with my shoes till it's nothing;
This world is a never-ending unending hate pool masquerading as "The Dream," and just because there are a few rusted clogs doesn't mean you must let that rust ruin you.
"You don't have to kill yourself, lower your lights, or silence yourself to console somebody who isn't you," repeat after me.
So let them despise your garden, and let those who loathe green grass lawns despise your beautiful, abundant existence;
I mean if they cared, about the many fruits you've made, they would also grow them, share around,
But instead they chose to strip the good ones with pesticide rust,
This brief period of life is all they've ever known,
People might be so damn happy without a wretched smoke if they let go of this mentality of condemning others for things they can't unravel;
YOU ARE READING
The Half-Burnt Boy
PoesíaFor all the prompts I find fascinating on this thing called the "World Wide Web," and random words I find interesting enough to add to this collection; I'll be crafting poems out of thin air like any magician would do 🪄 Copyright © 2021 by Aloka Wi...
