deepundergroundpoetry.com
Some More Smoke.
Through the cloudy tears in my bloodshot eyes,
I can make out the fog that escapes my lungs.
Even if the room spins just a little bit, who cares?
Its what I need, if I choke it down I become myself.
My throat hates the burn, but my brain loves to swim.
The resin on my lips is just a sign I'm approachable again.
I get the feeling I need to sin again.
Besides, I will never be a saint.
I can make out the fog that escapes my lungs.
Even if the room spins just a little bit, who cares?
Its what I need, if I choke it down I become myself.
My throat hates the burn, but my brain loves to swim.
The resin on my lips is just a sign I'm approachable again.
I get the feeling I need to sin again.
Besides, I will never be a saint.
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