i smoke cigarettes out
of sheer boredom,
not the kind that makes you
want to kill yourself, no
a different kind of
boredom
probably the one that
makes you want to do nothing
but sit and enjoy
how pathetic you are.
the streets are dark and
uninspiring
a bit like my past
where everything that happened
happened without a sound
my birth, how much i hated
company as a young girl,
my sister's birth, my brother's time
in jail, the pathetic love of
my pathetic life.
but it's not pathetic when
it's unnoticed and this
sad excuse of a poem isn't
the last i write, nor is this
cigarette the last
i smoke.
-- Eleanor