Why I Smoke

There are things that you can train away,

Burn themselves down to a tray,

The undoing of great effort,

To make rolls of any sort,

Religiously dedicated to become invisible,

To become lost to an art,

There are things we love to be attracted to,

Like the rings of a tree you sit next to,

Then lay under to count cosmic sparkle,

To enjoy the pieces that stand out,

And drown down the voice of pain,

Out there’s another version of rain,

There are things you do with people,

The habits for the time truffle,

Deserting reason for comfort,

Tasting how emptiness fills up,

Getting high, to get by, filling up,

Gassing up, grasping up, letting in,

There are things we can control,

Deeper into our spirals and folds,

So mostly that’s it, a deadly freedom,

Like all the addictions we get stuck in,

Searching for precious in rubbish heaps,

Patterning in, letting go, showing colours,

There are things we choose to be a part of,

To lift ourselves, to stay calm, to cough,

To feel the warmth, the rough soft,

There are manufactured and hand made,

A decided abuse to some,

A broken promise to others,

An acceptable loss, puff puff pass…

There is this thing I do,

Every now and again,

Always with people,

To fit in, to share, to be there,

That lingers with me when I’m alone,

That I do when you are gone…

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