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it was dead
on the side of the road

wings wide with surprise
it's feathers it's eyes

already dull with death
crows are clever birds

but sometimes
they linger too long

in the road
seeking a seed

cracking a nut
poking at

this
and that

mornings        when the whole body hurts
afternoons      when the shadows are so sharp
evenings         when the sky is calloused with stars

when i am lost
please find me
Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.
Nicotine is a tightly structured, lyrical poem that explores the tension between fleeting comforts and the greater aspirations we often neglect. Using nicotine as both a literal and metaphorical device, the poem examines the small indulgences we cling to—despite knowing their cost—drawing a parallel to the broader human tendency to accept self-deception for the sake of temporary relief.

Through vivid imagery of smoke, stained fingers, and fading embers, the poem evokes a sense of quiet resignation, underscoring the slow erosion of will beneath a comforting but insidious habit. The rhythmic AB meter reinforces the hypnotic cycle of desire and consequence, mirroring the way these comforts lull us into complacency.

At its core, Nicotine is a confrontation—a mirror held up to our daily rationalizations, asking whether we truly seek change or merely the illusion of control. The introspective tone invites readers to reflect on their own vices, however small, and consider what they may be sacrificing in the name of fleeting ease.
Don't say:
' what's wrong with the world?'
  That's not your concern
   rather this:
  'What's wrong with myself?'
I miss my mum
She's not dead
She's just holed up in work instead

No complaints
No regrets
But I know she hates this life when she scratches her head

I miss my mum
She's in the next room

Wanting to be free
But she doesn't leave
Because she misses me too
Metal strings,
triangle pick,
painted board,
mind plays tricks.
Humming noise; the silence clicks.

Dust on frets,
bent-down spine,
aching chords,
blurred by time.
Still, I hum... though not in rhyme.
elation station
to moody blues
I take it in, breathe
and I reminisce

She pulls at me
but I won't give in;
i'm no longer the stardust
in the night, but a calm
breeze that you barely
notice, and I like it that way.

She wants me to be
the storm, but there's a
child who just wants to
be happy whose whispers
I make out in the static.

I can't pretend I miss you..
...
but I do miss the thought of you.
The "she" in this poem is mania.
I wrote this in 2023, about fighting against my manic states, and finally becoming medicated. I still am, to this day, and I like it a lot better this way.
A seed of faith I planted with trust
Promised to grow like how Mother wanted and just
As the reflections of the past must be recognized,
And the fruits of seedlings shall be embraced and not idealized.

I believe a little hope shall never be wasted,
By the burning and loving soul, I am guided
So those who conform are the very worst
From the petrichor of a traitor who's cursed.

The power of knowing we are privileged
Even foliaceous dialects are bound by one language
I am honored and proud, as opposed to loathing
Let us re-unveil the warmest smile to the Land of the Morning.

On this ground, a sprouting mind threatens hundreds of men
’Til the leaves have fallen, our blood will still be golden.
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