Oct 20, 2020
Cigarette, a poem
Oh, perhaps it’s the trickery of my solemn mind
I feel caged, constricted, and left behind,
For my soul burns with bruises of a thousand whiplashes
My skin burning with the bruises of cigarettes and matches,
The ashy feel of the fag isolates my mind once more,
I try to sing, but my throat hurts, probably sore,
My eyes water from the smoke, or was it my guilty conscience,
That made me break down, tormenting it with a fervor, completely incautious
I weep for what I’ve lost, and glare daggers at the fag in my hands,
For it was the destruction of my body,
But also, is the reason behind where my whole horrid personality stands.
-Ananya Arya
