The Smoking Gun
I lay down this pack,
trying to promise myself not to look back.
Looking back is my own weakness,
and you could also put it as my own selfishness.
Pleasing my own desires,
only making myself feel tired.
When I walk,
I fall short of breath,
just knowing it's death lurking down my neck.
Into my lungs this black smoke fills,
reading every day about how many ways it can kill.
Suicide is such a bad way to go,
but many don't see themselves going down that road.
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