Oh, Mr. Poet, so lost in your haze,
Chasing the smoke of your endless malaise.
You sit in the dark, like some tortured sage,
Kicking pebbles while you're trapped in your cage.

With every cigarette, you seek to ignite,
The spark of hope that just won't take flight.
But, darling, don't you see the truth that’s clear?
You’re just a dreamer with a bottle of fear.

You talk of heroes, but where’s your cape?
You’re more likely to trip on the stairs of fate.
A good deed here, a spark of light—
But, oops, it’s gone by the time you get it right.

Family calls, “We believe in you!”
Yet, you’re still in bed at half-past two.
Not saving the world, just saving the crumbs,
Wondering why the universe won’t give you some.

So, go on, sit beneath that endless sky,
Kick those pebbles, maybe even try to fly.
But at the end of the day, the truth’s on display—
You’re just a poet with a lighter, stuck in the gray.

He sits on the cold pavement,
back against the world,
eyes lost in a sky too vast,
too indifferent to a boy
who once dreamed of touching it.

The cigarette flickers between his fingers,
a quiet rebellion, a silent scream.
Smoke coils like memories—
of failures, of love lost,
of roads that led nowhere.

Maybe this is all there is—
a tired soul, an empty night,
a battle no one sees.

Then, a voice—soft yet firm.
"Got a light?"

He looks up, startled.
A stranger, wrapped in the wind,
eyes carrying storms of their own.

"You look like a man
who’s been running from himself,"
the stranger says, lighting his own cigarette.
"But the thing about running—
it never gets you anywhere."

A pause. A knowing glance.
"Maybe it’s time you walked instead."

The words settle like embers in his chest.
For the first time in a long time,
he exhales without regret.

The cigarette burns,
but tonight, so does something else—
a spark, a reason.

He stands up,
dusts off the weight of yesterday,
and starts walking forward