Writing is like smoking

All this black ink has slowly filled my chest

Every word making my charred lungs darker

But the smoke soothed my stuttering lips

And every phrase numbs the pain

It's easy to pretend like it doesn't hurt when I fall asleep

But these poems are suffocating

The very thing I live for is killing me inside

That doesn't mean I'll stop though

I'll just write another poem

So the pain can fade for a while