New Smoke & Old Fire

Smoking it up and holding it down,
All go up and I see it fly,
Smells like death; I hear the whispers,
I let the fire free my soul,
Escaping with the air is the chemical,
And with it my soul which is rushing to death.

My soul dies everyday on the mobile funeral pyre,
See this the other way, a young man's attempt to light his own way,
New is the end and the next one in my hand is not the old one,
I am here to smoke and smoke the hell out of you