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writing and poetry
One, Two Three Cigarettes



One, two, three cigarettes.

hopfully that might take away the pain.

and maybe calm you down.

hell, lets make it four.

cant it just go away?

no.

thats to easy.

pain.

pain is meant to be felt.

you cant just let it pass.

not that you could.

you dont hold it. it holds you.

five, six cigarettes.

does it matter any more?

not that it really does.

by the time you've developed lung cancer

the world will have been destroyed by nuclear bombs.

think about it.

so take that seventh one too.

and maybe two more.

to bad you just bought this pack.

only a few hours ago.

is the pain gone yet?

no?

of course not, you stupid narrow-minded b@st@rd

it will never be gone.

is this number ten already?

to bad you're all out. and you're broke.

look at that sky.

there's a new pain growing in you

as you watch the clouds turn blood red.

of course, this is real pain. the kind you get

when you fall and scrape ur knee on a rock.

except its in your lungs.

didnt you have another pack around here somewhere?

look at those clouds.

they're growing like a dust storm.

what makes you think you'll even live to see the sun rise?

you idiot.

you stupid little person.

what kind of life are you living?

you arent are you?

what a waste.

where's that cigarette?



--Emily Kroger--





 
 
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