Cigarette Butts

1

We try to write our poems

And our music on white sheets

No one reads them but ourselves

A sense of worth we try to find

Inside empty bullet shells

The smoke wafts inside the room

Pretty patterned swirls decorate my thoughts

Put pen to paper

Coffee as ink

Scribbles turn as stories unfold

We count the cigarette butts on the floor

Bottles stacked up the ceiling

We try to remember what happened before

But memories can only go so far

Tic-toc

Time stops and the room spins

No, I don’t smoke anymore

But did we get what we came here for?

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