I am their rock,
But
The little ones
Are my legacy

The problem is that
I'm not a long term thinker.
I've been telling myself for years
That if I'm not dead by 30,
I'll bite a bullet.
I'm still not convinced that's changed.

I should be sleeping.
The clock reads 0220,
She's snoring softly next to me.
But all I can think about
Is what's happened before.
Instead of what should happen
Next.

It's the clink of a bottle
On a hardwood table,
And the hiss of a cigarette
Being ground out.
It's the numbing warmth
Of just enough,
And the jagged,
Fuzzy edges
Of a little too much.
It's the things that keep me whole.
The things I was warned against
When I was growing up.
But they never tell you that
The things that are bad for you
Might be the only way
To keep your sanity.

I take it back.
The dead don't lie.
They exist in truth.
The living could learn from them.

I'm tired of writing about
Things that are above me.
I can't speak for the Gods
When they won't speak to me
In the first place.

The click of a lighter,
The tap of a can,
The rustle of a pack.

The nicotine keeps me sane.

A long drag,
A heavy exhale,
A purse of the lips,
Saliva on the pavement.

It rushes to my head.

Gives me the courage to debate,
Am I doing the right thing?
Is it all a mistake?
If I'm doing my best,
Why do I need to cope?

Stop thinking.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Let it wash away.
Let smoke and tar cleanse me.
So that I can keep fighting,
Another day.