I stand at the convenience store counter with a smile but conflicted inside I know I don't need them yet, there they are.
A rainbow of apathetic death a mosaic of bad breath and even worse excuses waiting to be packed put into my chest pocket and held close to my heart.
It makes me sick, hard to breathe and yet here I am all ready to leave with twenty more sticks of disease, the same ones that gave my father C-O-P-D.
But still I buy.
I swipe that card with little regard to the fact that I'm reliving history a son just as dumb as his father before him scoring the same dope wearing the same rope around his collar.
I've thrown whole packs out car windows sworn them off cause the habit, the money lost and especially the cough was getting to be a problem.
I've renounced this addiction with the conviction of a holy man yet still I stand smokes in hand puffing away; swearing this to be my last every time I can't help but laugh a little cause I know I'm full of ****. (Don't we all)