First cigarette of the day:
In goes the toxic particles,
Everything from ammonia to yeast all rolled up in a white and tan piece of paper.
Out goes the smoke, along with every negative feeling your body has ever been laced with.
You'd blow it all out,
hoping the smoke would take your problems away
and let everything disintegrate into the wind
as if you'd never see any trace of your issues again.
But if that were true, you wouldn't need another one.
Don't you dare touch another one.

Second cigarette of the day:
The smoke and feelings that you exhaled earlier in the morning,
Is now a ghost that's haunting you,
Slowly taking over your body until you're withering away into dust.
It's now a trail that follows you around and makes you stand out,
There is no escaping it.
Your problems are still relevant and floating in the air,
And you wonder why you can't **** them.
You inhale the ghosts that were once just mere feelings,
And you exhale an active tornado.

Third cigarette of the day:
Your ghosts have become demons that have broken through your protective rib cage into your lungs,
Which are now barren and wilted from setting them on fire,
Over and over again.
They tear past your heart and soul to make you cough up your anger and regret,
Just to have you swallow it again.
Your clothes reek,
Your teeth are yellowing,
And it's all because you wanted to breathe out your mere issues,
That just turned into haunting memories.