Branching Off

At this point
The branches from every tree I smoke,
Mirror my wall of glass broken in bits.
Like the glass house I live in.
At the age I’m at while I lay back and seep into a vision,
Of how I picture my life will be like in the future.
Every puff feels harder,
As my bad thoughts become looser.
Only question that comes to mind,
Though.
When that joint is lit by emotions I can’t control,
Are my sorrows,
Or my happiness burning away into a pile of ash?…