Life of Burning

If I was a cigarette
People would be addicted
to me
They would


want me,

crave me,

need me.

I could burn and glow,
and fill lungs
with nicotine coated
death.
I’d slowly shrink
instead of grow.

I would have as many people
passionately hate me,
as so desperately
love me.
But soon
I’ll be

forgotten.


Easily
replaced.

What’s left of my body
blowing in the wind and

thrown onto
dirty sidewalks.





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