Clouds

I’ve ceased smoking regularly.

I don’t feel the urge to anymore,

Except on certain occasions

When a mood strikes my fancy

Like how sulfur strikes a match.
I’m still anxious though.

I bite my nails until they’re gone

And then I gnaw my fingers.

As long as my mouth is fixated,

My nerves don’t seem so broken down.
I’ll surely die of a heart attack.

If I’ve quit too late: cancer.

Regardless, my chest constantly hurts

And I keep looking to the sky,

Wondering how many clouds I made.

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