1 puff.
2 puffs..
3 puffs...
4 puffs....
I stare through the fog that essmbles into shapes then forms into dark clouds.
My boyfriend hates the fact of this process of how I get happy and try to escape. But I cannot be held here to in despair of the chains of depression weighing me down to barry me beneath the ground so my screams won't make it to the surface.
So I smoke this drag and pressing it against my skin
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
He asks
"I'm practicing for hell"...
YOU ARE READING
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
ŞiirAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
