Do they know how they look,
with sticks coming out of their mouths,
blowing smoke?
They are a human fire,
living on the things that will eventually put them out.
Thriving on death.
I hate to see them go this way.
So young,
so hopefull,
all dreams choked by clouds of nicotine.
They know it's wrong,
so why do it?
With each puff,
their lives lay dimolished on the sidewalk.
I watch as they die,
leaving their familys on the wayside.
Only carring about their sick pleasures.
Their youth falls in ashes,
and I can't stand it anymore.
2007-09-23
02:37:09
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9 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Poetry