A FRUSTRATED WRITER'S MIND

Dr. Smoke

One morning, I woke up missing the

undeniable heavenly taste of the

clouds. So I lit a stick and reminisce

how it feels like. How that piece of

burnt paper and tobacco travels down

my throat, going to my lungs. A

cigarette is the therapist who knows my

thoughts, who knows all of my burden

and every single rants I have. It was my

only true friend. And as I exhale the

smoke, It feels like I exhale all my

problems away.