You are smog you are 
the suffocating greyness coating my 
throat in thick layers like a winter coat,
Except on the 

Inside

Of cupboards behind
Bookshelves you are always there, waiting
For the perfect opportunity to strike
Hard, fast but its always your

Shadow

Puppets dance on my shoulder they
Don't reflect what's inside
But it doesn't matter, does it? 
Only that everyone likes the 

Dance 

Under the sun till my 
Head bake heart ache stop pulling on my
Strings I cannot feel my feet anymore 
How do I 

Stop?