days dangling
persisting mists keep paralysis
locked upon these lips
priority checklists insist
there is much more to live for than this

but a pack of 20 is gone long before
the night arrives
to heighten my hollow feining core
eagerly willing to endure more
if it brings an end to the internal war

then moved onto 100's
it's the percentage of how certain I am
that all corruption
is never ending

these invented coping methods
-lists of pros and cons with cigarettes-
are not getting me any closer
to blending
only extending
the mending process
of which I wish I was commencing

I bet instead
I'll keep pretending
that this demise is intended for me
still I know I'm only guessing
and growing further away from
social structure
that has been made,
but made to rupture