The smoker

It pleased my friend  to have a feeling ,

That could make him feel real, 

That could  make him  happy with smile, 

Every day he could sit by the roadside, 

Smoke weed then go mad, 

And laugh  at his problems, 

Only to meet them next morning.

Diagnosed  with lung cancer, 

Doctors  have no curing answer, 

Coughing  mercilessly he is, 

At a distance  glancing at the grave, 

His  children will soon miss him, 

He wishes  he never existed, 

Shun to be a smoker. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s