I quit letting you steer my beautiful life,
causing this sort of internal strife
I quit letting you steal a memory from me,
having me escape for a moment selfishly
I quit letting you fester in my lungs
and defending you with my poisoned tongue
I quit letting you be my constant escape,
using you as a bandaid to heal my scrapes
I quit letting you be a part of me
because today and forever I am clean
I've quit the killing-
are open bare.
forgetting what its like,
to deal with stress and the like
without nicotines merciful smile
perfect timing i would say
now that math makes up my days
and work the latter of my nights
i've no form for this urge
that pulls inside
rung out like a sponge
elixir of toxins
and iron lungs
chained and yet
how long can i resist your cough?
An endless pouring of doubt.
It chokes and kills.
You don't see it.
But it's felt.
Inside the depths of my chest.
It continues to press.
I try and fail to breath
And the funniest part?
I put on a smile and make a joke.
And no one seems to see.
The dust once settled,
needs to be shaken again,
which was trapped and bottled,
has to fly out to douse the flame
A long time passed, few friends I have earned
in this work of black and white, few shades I have burned
I lost my pace in the layout of this maze
got knocked out, now just the sky I can gaze
I am no stone, but I know to roll
I can play more, but I choose to fold
I have new horizons to reach
the rocky roads are always there to teach.
The dust wont deter me now with pain,
for I know, I will rise up again.
"Move" they say
and put martingale on with a neigh
Thai pony in Chiang Mai
A green patch of grass
was what your heart desires
would yourself like a chew of truss?
In the forest with no name
on hard concrete without an aim
swimming with the tuk-tuk wave
"Where am I?"
you ask with side-patched eye
"My knees are soft like a microwaved pie"
But all you ever get
is a whip on the back
from the oddity with some leather strap
"Why are you so hesitant
while all the other stallions are competent
don't you know the creatures in the carriage are very important?"
"How important are the vultures in the world I don't know
but I know that I won't say no
if you borrow a thread of my hair for a violin bow
and play their funeral march with it to and fro"
Lift it to your lips
& let what falls adrift in the form of ash
dissolve in the wind
as dried bone thrashing,
bashing against dust & grit.
Pull; take a long hit.
Dregs to be kept until last in the bottom
of your broken lungs,
taken as deep as breaths:
to rattle against your teeth.
"O", takes the lewd shape
of your chapped mouth as you break free
from your caged-in chest,
skeletons left sat, to wallow
as ashen bones & yellow teeth.
Hold your knuckled joints
against tenderest flesh of your upper lip
& sniff, as if a try to void
all signs of violent backslides
to clandestine nicotine meetings.
Flick blanked eyes to lit but
dying embers ground between sole & soil,
& morosely swear never
another, not one more; after
this next one, this last one, never.
The feather pen lifted from the page and, finally, he had written his last. He wanted no thunderous applause or any awards of gold and gems. Neither did he desire to be immortalized in the pages of history for countless generations. Overwhelming admiration is, well, just that: overwhelming. As his works were printed and sold all throughout the land for lords and dukes and earls and even the king himself he knew what he had to do.
He sat up from his creaky chair and gave his work one long lasting gaze before shuffling to the main entrance.
Donning a large coat, scarf, hat and walking stick he picked up the sack he packed throughout the week and slung it over his shoulder. He gave a sad look over his home before passing through the doorway and onwards to the highway.
They say he can still be found if you follow the tears he shed along that road...