Café Philos: an internet café

Sitting on a lonely bench outside Ranger Hall,
Humid, hot October 5, 2005,
I light a cigarette, sick of it all,
Wishing for death, not totally alive;

I watch the paper burn back,
Revealing the cancer within,
I look down at my cigarette pack,
"Lucky Strike," what truth, what wisdom;

I too want to burn back my paper,
Let loose the pain of my cancer,
Watch the smoke curl like vapor,
Searching for truth, for an answer.

I let the smoke go to my head,
Numb away the turmoil and pain.
Earlier I felt like a phantom,
Knowing only that no one knows my name;

Earlier I knew I was only a shape,
Nothing solid, just some steam.
Now I have this desire to escape,
To make myself come clean.

Now I don't feel anything,
The smoke icing the heat,
And I watch all the mistakes I've made
Suddenly repeat.

I light another cigarette,
So it's come to this,
I use a substance to forget
The angst that writhes in me.

I'm a coward, I'm afraid,
Too scared to hope for love,
Now I just want to trade
This for the sky above.

I light another, this makes three,
How the third is supposed to be the charm,
But deep down I know I'll never be free
Because all I know is self-harm.

I only know how to sabatoge
Anything that brings healing,
I live life merely as a mirage,
I'll never feel my paper peeling;

And so I cower back to my dorm,
A cell amongst everyone else's paradise.
I hug myself to stay warm
And crack open another vice.