The Routine : A Box Of Cigarette
It saves me from focus of the brightest cities,
comforts my body like the grip of the darkest gallows.
Thoughts getting cremated in the cemetary head,
while eyes keep dripping anxiety in the Bay of illusion,
floating nowhere with the tunes like fumes
I am weaving my death everyday like a silk worm.
With every Cigarette that goes down,
I wonder ;
I am killing the pleasure
while the pleasure is killing me,
and this repeats over and over.