Smoke by Osman Naeem

On the sidewalk that I walk on with a walkman on

The smell of the rain, the vapors from this cup of tea coating the walls of my oesophagus

With my head low, I see the remains of what left some high before on the floor below 

And took a few to another dimension but closed many doors
Uneven pulse rates causing frequent visits to Dr.Stethoscope
I pick up this blunt off the ground and reach for my lighter as curiosity provokes
And with the roll of my thumb, I hear a man whisper into my mind
It gets colder as the sun sets, and my breath forms a face infront of my eyes
This voice said things to me, who knows, maybe it was just a schizophrenic’s mental tendency
“Don’t walk away, I am you, but unlike you I’m not your enemy”

Even though my lips and lungs turn black, from the painful Asthma attacks
I lust for more with every puff, the smoke lets my demons escape into the ash tray
The smokeless flame inside me desires more for this smoke
As my heartbeat elevates and my soul levitates
The THC medicates with inner peace for all the seven days
As I cease to be separate with the whole world, I’m beyond the second base
With a vision blurred by the rose tinted ink from the purple haze
A dozen different Rorschach patterns appear, everytime I blink
Looking in the mirror before I leave as an epitome of despicable
I see a rebel on a different level plane, downtrodden but upbeat
Overlooking the underlying issues walking down this puddled street
This Marijuana smog makes me feel like a misguided ghost
A recluse let loose with internal flesh wounds
Walking out of this through the society of sobriety
On the psycho-path, trying to heal by inhaling this nicotine
But this will be my one last cigarette
I’m tired of dying over and over again
I don’t need to suffer, there’s much better things to gain
Nothing hurts as much as the pain of staying the same
Remember, when it’s all done, there’s no one but yourself left to blame

That’s what it said to me before I tripped on my own shoelaces
With my head high, looking into the grey sky
I snap this cynical little cylinder into two
Shades of brown and green powder ricochet off the floor below
And as I step past the past, the rain becomes a better metronome

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