Cancer

The sickest thought in my sickened head
Is the sickest wish for sickness.
As I exhale grey spectre breath
Twisting and changing in thickness
I read the warnings in black and red:
Smoking may cause cancer.

I drag again, exhale again
And don’t feel sad for health,
For I welcome the tumour and the pain
To grow inside myself,
And with no sense of fear or shame
I find I wish for cancer.

To be told that death will still my breath
And not to pull the trigger
Is comforting, and sicker yet,
Instils my soul with vigour.
So I will smoke this cigarette
And secretly pray for cancer.

To die with my sick head held high
And not be buried with spite
Is comforting and also sly;
Claiming I’ll fight the good fight.
But inside I’d know I’d get to die
With all the blame on cancer.