If something could be done about the pain my words bring,
It certainly would not be by my own will
You have seen my wickedness
Soothing it with smoke neither calmed it nor distracted it from it's target
It threatened the very days I had left with no consolation
It only left a bad taste in my mouth, yet to be outgrown in time
My questions go unanswered like many have complained before,
But I never want to admit how weak and foolish the heart is in secret
It's dormant on the best of days