Who knows what they're doing anymore. We both know I'm lost. Burning out like the end of the cigarette in my hand. I really don't care to be this way, but it allows me to feel something and that's what I crave. I crave the buzz that reminds me that I can feel something. I feel beauty in the essence of this tar and tobacco ridden stick. I run to feel, I run to feel the air on my face and the soreness of my body when I'm done. But I fear as I consume these packs one by one I will no longer be able to breath with my lungs. My poetry is shitty, but it's a way to express it gets it out better than the rest. Sleep is pleasant except when the nightmares come. Disappointment is often the theme and I fear someday it might become reality. I detest myself from my messy hair to my crooked feet. From my nasty insides to my heart that beats. I'm not a good person like many claim, I sometimes lie to say I am but what do I gain. If I know the truth, then I'm nothing but a liar. I lie to myself and I preach to the choir. I'll hurt those around me turn roses into thorn. Cause I'm a dandelion and they're the loveliest of birds. Maybe the floral on my clothes is an expression hoping that maybe one day I'll be as beautiful as them. But even though I was the only one created in His imagine I still envy the way they nod in the wind. Sometimes though I get a glimpse of beauty and I am happy being me, but most the time it seems that my reflection in the mirror is the enemy.
