Discretion
Up in vapor, curling smoke
Sometimes I get high when I imbibe
Prod for a response, but you ain't gotta poke
Don't tempt fate in plain sight, curtains conceal
Please use discretion for compartmentalization
All kinds of people got eyesight, myopia is real
Don't dick me over about if I'm getting dicked deep
Exaggeration's no crime, the line's drawn at lying
If it's just you excited, uppers make me sleep
Gravities or blunts, details I don't sweat
It goes to the same place, I call it my face
Just 'cos I'm bored don't mean I'm upset
This poem feels like someone speaking from inside their own fog, trying to keep a little dignity while the world watches too closely. Beneath the jokes, the smoke, and the sharp edges, you can hear a person asking not to be exposed or misunderstood. The plea for discretion carries the ache of someone who has been judged before and doesn’t want to be hurt again. Even the bravado around getting high feels like a shield, a way of softening whatever is too raw to say plainly. There’s a tenderness in the way the speaker admits to exaggeration, boredom, and the need for space without wanting to vanish. The rhythm becomes a kind of armour, a way of staying upright when emotions threaten to spill. What makes the poem deeply human is the mix of humour and vulnerability, the push‑and‑pull between wanting connection and needing protection. In the end, it feels like someone whispering: see me, but gently.