The light of a cigarette and the leaves packed tightly, wrapped in papers, give off a slow burn, the high that keeps me sane wanes in the wind. My token to staying in a book, with no words for me to have spoken, but the dream that I belong remains like cement. The jealousy and grip of trying to hold onto each page is like another tsunami coming for the back of my head. Clueless and dumb, trapped in a sinful boat headed for the bottom of the ocean with every untrue word that leaves my lips. Setting myself aflame with the fake story I create to believe I am worthy of something beyond me. This water swallows me and rots the floor while the ceiling is ablaze above me. My toes are wet, and my hair is crimping in the kitchen. Which one will reach me first? A tornado of emotions and a wild imagination can create a story I can't even read aloud. Sin and sadness intertwined In a body that doesn't belong to me, a soul caught in its own trap and demise. A body and story that I create in my own mind that I believe to be what it means to be alive. Living in a world where I get dressed up for nobody, and I dream of what could be instead of what is. Building a skyscraper out of broken dreams and lost wishes, without a penny to my name. I'm building something that doesn't exist. As long as this high lasts, my life will be without purpose, love, and honesty.