Glorious Celebration
                  Flower Moon          
                          Petals Bloom
                                 Springs Perfume
                                        Fertile Womb

I am smoker, thats what I am.
And it makes me feel good.

When I sit at a bench,
and watch people pass,
With smiles on their faces or scowls as well,
And I love to share a square with someone unknown,
As mine and their story pours out while we both take a drag,
To me that is living and having a good time.

I am a smoker, thats my addiction,
Others hate it, but to me that is love.

Infatuated with nature and its conflictions,
I'll rise really early to watch the sunrise,
The pretty pink colors juxsaposed with purple,
Birds, planes and cars all rushing: rushing somewhere,
Or nowhere at all, I just sit there and wonder,
With tendrils of smoke soaking my clothes,
I do not care to rush, I am a smoker.
Watching in silence trying to witness,
Something worthwhile and great,
While others are worried about being late.

I am smoker, that is my passion,
It might be wrong but it feels so right.

When I go somewhere beautful,
new, old, familiar or strange,
I light up a stick, and blow smoke at the sky,
Blow smoke at those faces, sharing the sight with me.
I will buy a new album and share it with a cigarrette,
While the headphones blast and soothe,
My hand comes to my mouth,
And feeds it its poisons or nutrition.
Call it malicious, but my tenure on this earth,
Wont be so much longer than it is expected.

I am a smoker, that is my sin,
I try to kick it, but it comes back.

Once I did not smoke for six months,
And i felt okay, as I watched others enjoy,
that which I loved and cherished at one point,
But after I abandoned her, my habit that is,
I asked her out once more,
and has not left me since,
She takes care of me when im happy or sad,
When I have been a good boy or bad.
She loves me no matter what,
Even If i did leave her once.
But I will leave her again,
Maybe today or when it has been enough,
But right now I will finish this pack,
And see what comes after.

That look.
That eye piercing, judgmental, closed expression that leaves you closed out.
She’s already made up her mind. She’s done speaking even before words
were spoken. She’s done. It doesn't matter what you say now, no matter
the white in your words. She’s constructed a story, in that rock thick
head, it’s become a truth. And even if the two of you were to find
some kind of agreement, she will always express doubt. She will
always think you're telling a lie. She'll walk away, ready to tell
the story she’s constructed and place words in your mouth.
And you’ll cry, in the room right above her. You’ll cry in
frustration, and anger, as a distasteful flavor fills your
mouth – the taste of false quotation and fabricated
words. The part that’s going to kill you inside is
the fact that you're going to go back downstairs
and act like nothing ever happened in that room
right above her. If she can’t hear you when you’re
right in front of her, there’s no way she’d hear the sound
of dozens of tears as they roll down your cheek and crash onto
the hardwood floor. A stain that will remain for only a few moments,
then it'll dry out, dead. And you'll put on a façade and agree with her lies
because you never wanted any trouble. You never wanted to see her mad or disappointed. You'll just agree because you convinced yourself it’s the right thing
to do. Well everytime you lie to yourself, it adds a pebble to your back. You’ll
become a slave to these lies and carry them everywhere. And with each one
you’ll feel more and more alone until you're about to snap. You’ll go to her
for comfort and she'll tell you everything is okay and that this is just
teenage angst. Another lie, placed into your mouth as you agree.
Another pebble. Another back break. Another tear.
But who’s counting? You are. Who cares?
You do. And, in the end,
who’s alone?
You are.

the tears are but drops of blood
falling
from every crack in my skin
spilling
onto the cold bathroom floor
creating
pools of crimson sorrow
washing
away the emptiness inside
remaining
only as stains
tonight i will run my feelings dry

You fight
I scream
What is this all for?
Why force another person to believe they are not worthy?
Why make them look at themselves less?
It is no longer funny
when I stare and question my identity...

it is meaningless all that pours from your lips
never  has it occured to me
that the words you speak are poison
that the life you lead is dead

I am not here to judge
I hate to fight
I want to fall asleep at night
knowing you all are at peace

but how can I love when I hate what you've become
how can I believe when your fallacies lead destruction

no one controls a single soul

you may label
you may grieve
but my fellow friends
what you decide may lead me to leave
I hate to say goodbye
but its the only justice I see

May you be you
and let me be me
with or without you
I will be free
I have learned this life I live is too short to care about your beliefs

You worked with Eric and Ernie,
And told them what to say,
You brought us so much sunshine,
Even on Christmas Day.

So difficult to pick my favourite,
Of the sketches "what you wrote",
But when I see Eric playing Grieg,
I laugh at every note.