I once met a boy whose eyes were as pain ridden as my own, perhaps more. His only weapon was the cigarette placed between his fingers that he inhaled, leaving a strong smell of smoke around us both, that caused a lasting impression of guilt that settled into my shirt, finding home.
The cigarette smoke was his defence and it circled around us in the dimly lit car park, staining our jackets. Neither of us were phased, for we both knew what it was like when growing up became a constant fight leaving us both in our late teens struggling to sleep at night, but this was quickly passed as okay and we didn't know any different so we went along with it.
We knew what we were doing would make us ill, but we had no place to go and no one offered to fix what was broken, in fact i'm unsure they even could. We sat in our black ripped jeans and spiked leather, inhaling a drug that we both chose discussing our dreams that may be a little out of reach but deep down we know we can get to them, we aren't sure how, but that's okay.
The sky is clouded with a blanket of sunset in foreign shades, they really bring out the hazel in your eyes, mine too. It's funny that, we are just a couple of teenagers trying to fight our way through with society's judgement bringing us to our knees on a rough surface, with the world on our shoulders quickly weighing us down, but somehow we still make it.
They say smoking is a bad habit but so are we.
YOU ARE READING
Letters In My Head
PoetryI will write letters in my head laced with blood and tears to create a sense of reality to fight my fears in a world that is broken and bruised, i've been misplaced. Some topics covered in my poems might cause distress so please read at your own ri...
