cross my heart and hope to die
there's nothing better, in my eye
than a single puff or a lonesome breath
of killing smoke and vaporous death
i'd never voice my addiction
they'd all laugh and call it fiction
but the thought never leaves my head
let alone my lips, like the voices of the dead
and pretty soon that's what i'll be
an empty body under a tree
a lifeless nothing, a memory
and nobody will pity me
they'll put their hands on their hips
i put the cigarette between my lips
they'll blame me for my own demise
all these years, it won't be a surprise
YOU ARE READING
A Little Thing Called Death
Poetryi won't explain many of these. they are for you to work out and they'll probably mean something different to everyone. (i own these poems) ((FINISHED.))
