After smoking my first pack Of cigarettes The novelty wore off pretty quick. It didn’t feel cool anymore, Didn’t make me feel important. The cigarette was just something To stick between my fingers, **** between my lips, Inhale and feel something In my lungs. A prop. It was just a stick With a red, smoldering ****, A piece of tobacco To play with before the ember Ate way down to the filter And singed my fingertips.
Now, I think I light up Because the smoke is so ******* enticing. It’s beautiful, A kinesthetic work of art like a ballet, The way those silver Tendrils curl so languidly From the tip into the air, So graceful, so smooth. When I smoke I can’t help but to imagine I’m watching a group of dancers.
And I think I light up Because there’s nothing better to do Half the time and at least It flouts the boredom for a few minutes or so, At least it interrupts the Relentless monotony of Life. Kurt Vonnegut mentioned Something about smoking Being a noble form of suicide-