u/New-Act5376

Readers, I have been active here for one and a half years. And honestly, I love it here, with you guys. So today, I have a question for you all.

You see, every day, we all come across posts here, of you guys selling books. There's nothing wrong with it, of course. Forgive my intent. But I always wanted to ask, "Why do people sell their books in the first place?" Doesn't there exist any connection between them and the books? Don't they annotate? Make their personal notes and write random thoughts between the pages? Do they get sad when someone buys their book which they have had in their arms? Don't they have a stupid urge to build a small home library out of them? Or am I just delusional to think of such things?

I came across and over them from somewhere, or no where

Killed a few, barely holding onto life beneath a mind that never noticed

I was a sinner of flowers, but an oblivious walker to myself

To others?

I was just another man minding his way

I felt a thud under my foot

It was a delicate sound

I stepped on a dead body

But dead bodies are cold

The flowers were colorfully warm

I paused, bent down, and looked above

It was a tree that was letting them fall

The wind will carry the spores somewhere else

Far away, where the flowers will be colorful again

I wanted to remind myself of the sin

I picked — four of them

Three of the same color; one of a different

Opened the book I was holding in my arms

Looked through four different sections

Put them one after another

That was a funeral of flowers

I never read the book again

Pressed between the pages like buried things

The flowers would have lost their color

Their leaves dried and their fragrance still breathing

Maybe someday, the book will find different arms

They will wonder why I haven't finished it all

The pages will open, the fragrance will spread, the seeds will scatter

On a fertile ground, in the heart of winter

The flowers will be colorful again and someone will pick them up

Without stepping on them

And not breaking them from their home

P.S. It's my first poem that I am posting here. I hope you enjoyed it.

Apart from Peter Griffin's tagline, I want to say, yeah. It sucks. It sucks badly. Haven't touched a cigarette for two weeks till I had the worst relapse today so I smoked 5 sticks. Now, I feel like crap. Honestly, I'm tired of it. How many fucking packs do I have to throw away? I tried embracing it, but that didn't work out well either. At this point, it's just a toxic, parasitic relationship.

Some of my friends are suggesting that I start eating those flashy cans of Zyn/Velo. I tried a few (2/3 pieces) once, but they made me puke and I was in the air for half an hour.

Are there any chainsmokers who have quit and come out successful from it? Above that, how did you do it?

Non-smokers who can't relate to it, please don't waste your words. I'm so done with those fancy advices. It's not how easy it might look. So please.