As I sit on my curb
smoking a menthol cigarette
I'm thinking of all things wrong with me
and the world.
Questions fill my mind.
Why is the world so cruel?
Why am I the person I am today?
Why do things have to go wrong?
Why cant I go one day without disapointing someone?
These questions will  never get answered.
I could do it myself,
just maybe I could.
But choose not to,
for the suspense of the lingering
questions excite me.
Taking another drag of my cigarette
one after another.
It slowly dies down,
these worries along with it.
Finally off my mind
until I revisit the same curb
and light up a new stoug.
Every thought about
the cruel world
and myself
rushes over me like a stampede
of horses.
Can I ever get a peaceful moment
with my cancer stick and myself?
But that's another question
that will never get answered,
along with the others.