Between My Fingertips

Between my fingertips I hold the key to self destruction
With no instruction but to inhale
Deep and fast to make the head rush last and with destruction in hand
Looking around I suddenly noticed something

While the smoke filled the air,
Flying off the tip of my tongue
I couldn't help but feel the cold breeze around me
Holding me tight as if I were a son being held by his mother

The trees swung gently, softly as if naturally they didn't see what I was doing
Birds flew around, ignoring my plea for help
As I inhale once more
Then again, and again, and again
Each time burning less then the last
But I guess that's what they say about memories of the past

The air was silent except for my repetitive breath
I took another inhale, in and out as if it were never there except for the shakiness it left

With thoughts swirling around in my mind I saw before me true beauty, the kind no smoke can corrupt
The kind that's deeply rooted into the ground
Where no past smoke is found

I wish I could say the same for my roots
I've got smoke in my heart ever since I can remember
This act of self destruction was merely one act of many for I was too far gone to be saved
My thoughts were interrupted by the rustling sound of leaves in the trees, reminding me of why I was there

So I asked, why is it that the beauty clearly established here lets me bring destruction upon it? Upon myself?
For my goal was not to corrupt nature, don't get me wrong, but rather to corrupt myself
Knowing each time I inhaled I was stopping the breeze within,
destroyed the trees within,
Scaring the birds away,
And ultimately leaving me desolate; bare

So you may ask, why do I turn to self destruction when there's beauty all around me?

Well, I respond, that's because it's the only thing that's found me

 

                                                                    

This poem is about: 
Me

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