Back In This Cigarette

This is a poem I thought of while listening to music and the singer was talking about a cigarette.

When I light up, 

The nicotine rush, 

Going straight to my head, 

A brief sense of relaxation. 

My favorite time to smoke, 

At night under the stars, 

Watching the smoke vanish, 

Into the crisp, cool air.

The fire burns at the tip, 

As the ashes fall off end, 

It's like death is calling, 

As it slowly stops burning.

When the cigarette goes out, 

I finally realize the truth, 

That everything must come to an end, 

And the air we breathe is no more.

Author's Note

Please, comments and critique are welcome.

Reviews

[Aethereal]

Yes in time, our universe itself converges on an infra-red heat death, but in the meantime we enjoy a smoker’s paradise. I was inspired to write this tiny poem for you which you may keep as your own:

Smoking Hot Babe

When she lights her cigarette,
motivated by its rush
she develops the mindset
that all things are kind and lush.

Underneath blue flaming stars
she blows smoke rings through the air
while inhaling jet black tars
as they mesmerize her there.

[Coyote Poetry]

I miss the days of cigar, cold beer and a shot of whiskey. I enjoyed the poem. Took me back to days when life was simple. I know smoking ain't no good. Maybe better if we decide our death? Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Sami Khalil]

Not fan of smoking but I like the poem a lot. Bravo.............

[Travie]

Thank you, that means a lot!

[Sami Khalil]

You are welcome...:)................