I'm coughing up my lungs again,
smoking cigarettes I never had any intention of starting.
This isolation becomes inhalation
but it seems I cannot breath anymore.
Constantly searching for satisfaction I will never find
because it is found inside of things
I do not trust myself enough to keep
somehow I ruin everything.
Shallow tendencies weighing heavy inside of me
I guess I prefer semblance over substance.
So here I go again, locked inside an idea
rather than an entity.
I don't trust myself with sincerity-
too wrapped up inside attention
to be able to hold on to anything.
Carrying love would be too much.
I would crush the weight of it in my palms-
ash it like one of my cigarettes.
It would disappear every time I inhale.
It would disappear every time anyone got too close.
So I do not let them,
I tremble inside walls
and long hours
and become nothing
because that is what is expected of me.
Maybe I will gain the courage
by seeking someone that doesn't scare me so much.
Or maybe I just like the rush.
Stuck in an endless cycle of wanting love
and being scared of what it does to me.
So I **** down another cigarette
knowing this smell will stay with me.
Knowing this is as close to commitment as I will ever get.
I don't smoke cigarettes but I wanted to do a narrative poem- so this is from a totally random perspective with some of my feelings sprinkled in here and there.