what slips out from the cracks between thoughts

these are not so much words
as exhaust fumes from cigarettes, blunts, pipes
and the friction burns between words trying to escape the lack of standing room
it gets crowded in here
lips seal around filter, dragging in what once was solid, release
repeat. repeat. repeat. repeat.
snubbed out the smoldering stick of my own habit
light another
repeat.
sucking down fumes like it would fill me with what's neccessary
like the succulent smoke curling into my throat would make full my empty voice
maybe the second hand smoke is my gift to society
maybe this backwashed exhaust smoke curling from lips too dry is my two cents
yet to be counted
light another
repeat.
ashtray full and i'm still stuck on the same sentence
ceiling is no longer lonely
so much smoke like patrons in a grand ballroom crowd the fan and mingle
with the bits of dust solid clumped onto the backs of a previous layer
swilring a dirge to my unfinished poems
a waltz to the poems i never started
and ending on a sonata, a sad one, played dolefully from trumpets dingy
no one's dancing
just watching
waiting
indulging that swollen moment between inhale and pen touching the paper
perhaps this will be the end of something
the final moment he's been waiting for
will this be the end of too many cigarettes and not enough filled pages?
no
swallowing smoke to fill lungs with words
snubbed out the smoldering stick of my own habit
light another
repeat
repeat
repeat
still not finished