He smokes cigarettes
But he doesn't even like them.
Knows they're awful
And likely will one day **** him.
Buts that's why he does it
In this world we never know
He takes a puff to feel
Some semblance of control.

He walks alone at night,
And as shadows pass,
Secretly hopes for a fight.
In truth, he wouldn't know
How to throw the first punch
And he'd be easy prey
For even the commonest ****.
But part of him secretly hopes
That if he took just the right hit
It might be the perfect thing
To make him forget.

He sends letters to her,
With the wrong address.
She's moved by now,
To escape this city and it's mess.
But the letters never return.
So someone reads them, he thinks.
Maybe it's that he only yearns
To be heard.
So he writes as if she reads,
And it helps him live on.
Still, a letter opened
Does not replace a heart, once gone.