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I'm an addiction. But they always said life was a drag. I hate myself. I'm pushed to people to listen to stories of stress, frustration and hate - but never love. I hear of lust, but never love. You couldn't - no you would not believe the stories I've heard. I've been in so many places and yet I'm always the same. I never grow, never learn. The people who befriend me end up in harm's way and what's worse is the people who love them hurt too. I don't live long, and every breathe taken I'm closer to ashes. As my life gets shorter, my words are taken away. After that you can't even recognize me unless you've been a friend for far too long.
All this wrong with me, and if you ask certain people I'm love - or money. This really depends on how you ask. I'm friend with all sorts of people through other friends, gained at hard times, or just from a flaw. The saddest thing about my life is not what I am, how I am - but who I am. Because being a cigarette is one hell of a guilt trip. I even killed the Marlboro man.
 Persilla Lovehart · Sun Jun 11, 2006 @ 10:23pm · 1 Comments |
