Corroded Morals

I don't even know why I bother posting poetry. I'm really quite shitty.

Lips like ashes,
they crumble, corroded.
They are the remnants of your addiction.

The unwanted part of your necessity.
Strewn away with brisk flicks of your lithe fingertips.

You watch as they tumble to the earth,
falling from the edge of your cigarette, forgotten.
And probably stepped upon as you marched away.

But when you're feeling.. 'moral',
you instead have the decency to toss the remains into an ashtray.

They're grouped together, the useless. Piled with more.
But, their standard of living is so impeccably higher,
for your thoughts may stray to them occasionally, when you use that ashtray.

But that doesn't change the fact that they are trash.
Unhesitatingly thrown aside to make room for new debris.

I watch as you slip another cigarette from the confinements of the package,
propping it between your swollen lips.
Each one awaiting eagerly to be used, destroyed.

Inhaling as you watch the toxins float towards the sky.
Towards the unknown.