Everyday I am controlled,
dragged out the door by my arm,
when it’s time, it’s time,
I submit to them, longing for my fix.

Every erge is an uphill battle,
smoke, darker than tarnished charcoal,
the stench of burnt tobacco invades the air, 
inhale the smoke, exhale the stress.

But sometimes, I am the one
who can chose when it's time,
leaving the pack untouched in my pocket,
to sit unlit and undisturbed.

As if,
how would you like it if minutes felt like hours
if all you could hear was your heart beating,
as you feen for that savory fix,

Shaking like you’re about to erupt,
Watching your life slip away,
Turning your money into ash,
staring straight into your master, as you light another one?