A cigarette.


People are cigarettes. Useless pawns used for someone’s own personal addiction. They have immense hope when they’re taken off of the old dusty shelves, and into someone else hands. Those hands are they're guardians.


They are shoved into their guardians dirty old pockets where fabric encloses them, and they wait helplessly until they’re guided out to the “light” again, to see what the world has to offer.


And when they finally get that freedom, they’re only used for a few pointless minutes of pain, and destruction. Their guardian uses them for their own pleasure while breaking that cigarette.


When the beholder is done, they end your importance. That was your only use. You’re thrown to the ground and forgotten, but there is still a flicker of hope.


Your few ashes start to ignite themselves, and you feel those few moments of adrenaline running through you. You still have power, and that's all that matters. Surviving.


Then you’re trampled. Stepped on. Your life is over. There’s no meaning. No hope left. No one is there for you. Only yourself and your misery.

But that's more than enough company.