Sleepyhead
Your smoke travels inside you_
Slowly makes it's way down your trachea.
Creeping into your lungs.
Iron and coal lungs.
Scarred and tarred.
And you smile like everything was made to be alright.
Like you were born to maybe die.
And you forgave God a long time ago.
There's always that tinge of sadness in your skin.
And sickening times on your sleeves.
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