Ten a day. It was the classy way
to **** ones self.
Swords and pens, pens and swords.
Let out the smoke- it’s quiet grey
Presence only whispers bad health.  

So entranced by it's swirling movement.
I forget what it might be doing-
Or not doing.
Whichever way the ash settles,
That way my health will be ensuing .

I’ve grown tired of worrying now-
Heard all the caution the doctor spouts.
See my life is tied to this ashtray;

It’s full of little doubts.