Breathing deep —
they say it soothes,
a quiet anchor in the storm.
But the air just slips away,
a ghost that never calms my chest.
So I pick up the cigarette instead,
inhale the bitter cloud,
watch the smoke curl and fade—
and with every slow exhale,
the chaos dims,
like a storm losing its thunder.
But still, it feels
like running a marathon
with a shattered heart strapped to my ribs,
and legs made heavy—
heavy with sorrow,
each step a jagged shard,
each breath a weight pulling me deeper down.
I chase calm through smoke and pain,
a fragile truce between despair and breath,
knowing some battles
can't be soothed by empty air.