Quitting Is no easy job.
Packs of 20 get thrown away,
At least 5 times before the words
‘I’m done’
Can be released for your mouth to say.

So what’s your burden?
A traumatic incident formed from a full grown man, a child and some ****?
A mountain of reading, endless literature to form your statements into ones that are good?
Or is it an occupation?
One that you’re punishing yourself with, as a realisation from all of your revelations?

Burning sticks only point to one truth,
That you need more in your life to do.
Rather than let burning sticks do what they do best,
Fill your lungs with so much mud,
Air no longer passes through your chest.

But maybe it isn’t a burden.
Maybe it’s simply a yearning,
For you to finally feel something,
To give yourself an experience that reminds you of loving,
Or hating.

The game ends anyways so it’s alright.
Burning sticks may go out but you can always relight.
You may burn your lungs until you delight,
But just know that at the end of the day,
This is your own fight.