cigarette smoke and coffee plague the air
I feel it hurting my lungs by the second
The ashtray sitting among the clutter
whispers to me for some relief from the filth upon it.
My lungs cry back in a defeated tone
They care not about our cries.
It’s been proven time and again with the empty promise of laying it down.
Like the ashtray, my lungs will continue to suffer.
Until I break the chains of childhood and fly into open skies. Full of fresh air.