I wish I could put my cravings in an airtight bag and watch them convulse, riot and then die.
Better yet I’ll put them in a bag and send it down the river.
All those thousands of bags you see are my vice cravings.
The whirlpool of desire grips me strongly as I pass through, but I just must remember that calm waves are blessed just as much as whirlpools are cursed.
When I’m drunk and I smoke a cig its like my frontal lobe detaches from my body and plays somewhere else, maybe it looks down on me like john my boy you are better than this.
Sometimes I smoke to make a song better but its just a damn trick, it can’t make nothing better because the smoke filling your lungs is just another nothing, a non-stimulant masquerading for too long in the way of leisure.
How can you find leisure in something that kills you, maybe it’s because you’re still alive and you think the threat of death is still so far from you, it’s not.
Don’t you notice yourself dying every moment you hit it, everything goes away, every hurt, every worry but you also lose things you never thought you would lose.
You have given up the real and now your life is ashes