sometimes I wonder
If that's why I'm dyeing
The second hand smoke
Drawn from that cyndrical thing lined with orange and white
Smoke not a puff, too you
Sometimes I put down the window
Because I'm afraid I'll die sooner
But dyeing doesn't scare me
Neither does the smoke
It's the fear of just dyeing in general
That makes me not want the second hand smoke
YOU ARE READING
My Unstable Poetry
PoetryA diary of sorts. 2015-2017. A poetry collection of angst, depression, and epiphanies.
