It’s easy to get addicted to smoke,
while trying to write words that provoke,
hoping they won't be taken as a joke.

It’s easy to love when you feel you grow,
as the saying goes: if you know, you know.
But don’t forget—everyone leaves, though.

It’s easy to justify the world’s wrongdoing,
lost in the brothel’s ancient ruin.
Is that another pill you’re chewing?

It’s easy to lie with your mouth shut,
avoiding the truth you once brought up.
Now, death’s the only thing you stare at.

The easiest thing to do is flee,
lay blame upon the nearby tree.
But tell me, does that make you feel free?