Once is not enough,
For me to feel this buzz.
For I see the smoke upon your lips,
And I can only but feel envious.

Carcinogens? I fear none,
If I obtain my dearest's love.
For this reward is what I get,
The Consequences of a Cigarette.

One day, sir, This will have you die,
To that, my love, this is my reply,
Smoke again is what I'll do.
For ironically, I'd die for you.

"I will fight you till I lose everything!"
That is the business of bringing down the other man. Until he has felt the same mockery and loss of dignity the battle will never cease. He will feel your hatred so make sure it is apparent that a war is brewing.
Justify your own cause for it will bring you happiness, and doubt his reasoning for it will give you strength.
Point out his flaws and exaggerate to others why he is such a dog. You know what he does to be agreeable.Let it be known how he is the self righteous idiot.
To demean his intelligence privately can be quite the sport, but to do it in public can be the spectacle of your day.
Lie and cheat to protect your own esteem and act and fake the hero to become your own enemy.
For who do you think you were fighting anyway?

We spark
the kindling in ritual
as souls dance around us;
our bonfire keeps them at bay.
They never stray,
hoping to hold us, hug us,
whisper missings and tidings of comfort
to steady our bones for passage.

We wait
on rotting logs, gazing toward dawn,
entranced by flames and huddled together,
closely, with wet-iced eyelashes.
Our silent breathing scuttles away
on paths of pale white and moist,
out and sifted through our watchers' chests.
Their voices go unheard.
Who would hear conversation
from depths during an eve of fright?

We watch
the orange-red idol wane in the wind.
Odd, no? Shouldn't it be growing?
They're breaking though to us
so we embrace more closely,
latching, heartbeats bumping one another
keeping rhythm, keeping our stillness,
and fevered hands massage our shoulders,
erasing tensity, stiff limbs, lightness.

Smoke escapes our eye sockets
and they smile at our blankened faces.
Who are these people celebrating?

I've been told to find a teacher, but
no mere mortal who weighs the world
with gilded, golden scales.

I've been told to kiss the feet
of anyone who has walked between
this world and that.

She told me that it's almost winter.
Already, icy fingers claw up my straightened spine.
"Breathe out," she says, "and when you can't breathe in,

you are dead." But still the breath comes mechanically
in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in
and I laugh at the absurdity of it all.

After a talk about the moon in a pond, with
its reflection being obscured by ripples,
and only calmed by a tamed mind,

the others rush to the food to fill the void.
But the sky is clear, the moon is full,
and the pond sits gently rippling, waiting to be tamed.

It’s so strange
To watch you turn up every morning
When you swear every night that you couldn’t go on for one more minute
How is it that
You want something so badly
That you just narrowly escape everyday
It is miraculous how you beg for her to touch you, even gently
As she forces herself upon countless others
It isn’t your time they would likely tell you
And I know you would sneer
Because what do they know about time
Or your time especially
But I don’t think you realize
The intensity of the blackness
That you toy with
Your restless body that you can’t keep still for even a moment
Completely motionless
And the reality of death
Is so much less of an escape than I think you had hoped for
The images of your wasted body
Will remain with the people you leave behind
And your legacy
Though it will be tragic
Will be very awkward and often silenced
And your very realness will be buried with you
A fraction of your history will consume your story
A generic message of hope
And remembrance will become you
All the poetic waves of your thought
Will be dwindled down to nothing
And whatever permanence you have left behind in your absence
Will be misunderstood and deformed
Into something else, far from your own