I write these verses faster than you spit curses, and I could make you feel pain more than your fists ever could. You’ve left a nasty taste in my mouth, one that even the sweetest poetry couldn’t clear out. You are the tar in my lungs from these cigarettes that I smoke. You’re like the underlying problems that nobody really wants to talk about. So I don’t talk about it, instead I fill my chest with poison and spill it on these pages. Knowing soon enough my lungs will grow black and someone will know what I’ve kept inside for ages.