Why Cancer?

Here I sit weak and limp. The pain inside will not subside, and I hold death in a stick at the end of my finger tips. As I edge my demise closer to my lips, I start coughing and can't quit. The anguish in my lungs continues, but all I can think about is my quick fix; the cancer stick. In to my mouth it goes, I can now taste my grave. My grave taste alot like the exhaust my car gives off. I don't mind the taste, every cell in my body aches for just a taste: now I sit and medicate. This disease, inside of me. It makes me weak. One more time I slip my eradication to my funnel, I guzzle down the toxic venom; blood I start spitten. I feel the end, it's coming soon. The ailment I created, could of been deviated. If I would of used my brain, I would still have my soul. Though the charchoal in my lungs may weigh me down, I will get to heaven some how. My breathing comes to a hault, death came quick from a tiny little stick.