yet they tell me that I can't take a puff,
those who hold the bowels of this creation once told,
that all is made of pretty volatile stuff.
Volatile stuff that will go out with a poof,
life and the things will go down the drain,
you may dig down and draw up many a scoop,
yet all the grains you sow will always be in vain.
Mum says I look pale ,
dad says I look old,
like a cabbage grown stale,
that is what I am told.
The man with the rotten lungs on the pack,
the big black warning written at the back,
all scream that I will die if i touch that stub,
yet the small letters on top say smooth stuff.
From where I sit from where i smoke,
there isn't a rebellion within me to provoke,
am not a runaway from home ,
or a yipee yapee hippie all gone wrong,
I don't smoke coz i don't give a damn,
I don't smoke coz my dad imposed a ban.
I smoke as it tells that all inside is the fuel,
I smoke as it tells that all without is a veil,
and though I may fight though I may duel,
my fate in ashy smoke is under a seal.
Anonymous Nice one, Hope people who smoke understand your words.
Keep up the good work :)