It starts of slow
Like a tickle on my knees
My body tingles and the smoke lights up my lungs, I know I'm destroying myself
But how can self destruction feel so good
Laughter pours from inside of me
My vision impaired and the room spinning
My head feels heavy and my knees numb
My hands smell of fire and green
And I love the odor of it
How amazing I feel when the matchstick slides over the matchbox
Lighting up the rolled up joint in my hand and pulling it in and for that moment the world is alright and I'm the happiest girl alive.
Self destruction at its best
But don't worry about me
YOU ARE READING
From The Attic (poetry)
PoetryFrom the attic is a book with thoughts and qoutes and countless poems I've stringed together with the scattered words in my mind. any
