Tuesday, May 27, 2014


He steps out for air
It is time for a smoke
He craves the nicotine
Yet what he exhales
Is electronic.

It is Thursday night
Happy hour about to start
He is not allowed to drink
It has the same color
Apparently with the taste
Of what he is aiming for.

What then is the point
To root for a substitute
Is it so hard to swear off
We need familiarity that

A discrepancy between
What is and what seems.

Using this word to replace another
Perhaps one to soothe the torture
Finding excuses to justify actions
A lie in disguise enough to comfort.

He decides to go cold turkey
It is harder but at least
He is not pretending
He feels his truth, forgets the substitute
He learned what passive smoking means
And as of late,
Apple juice had become his drink.