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They speak in whispers, eyes narrow, cold, Of what's right and wrong, of rules grown old. They light the spark, inhale the haze, Yet point at me, their fingers raised.
"It's only for the sick," they preach with pride, A cure for pain, the truth they hide. For all their words, their smoke still drifts, In silent clouds, in evening shifts.
It's my choice, yet still, they hold the chains, Their rules unchanged, my rights restrained. But tell me this—did age decide, What's good for them, what I'm denied?
So I light my own, a quiet spark, It's just a plant; I bear no mark. If it's harmless smoke, as they say, Then why should I keep it at bay?
I'll take my breath, I'll make my choice, In smoke and silence, find my voice. Their rules may bind, their words may weigh, But this is mine—I'll walk my way.
