Ode to Smoking
Eleven twenty-seven a. m. my eyes groggily rove.
Desire ignights within; not even cold can sway my feet.
Eleven twenty-eight. A lighter in my hand.
Inhalation, sweet release. Finally, fully rested.
And suddenly, completely awake. Blissfully awake.
One isn’t enough in the morning anymore.
The second is lit before the first is out.
Now the rush is gone. You only feel the first one.
After that, all you feel is the void between your fingers.
Tags: Smoking
Poetry in Progress | Joey | 
14 June 2009 1:05 PM
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