I saw a little baby, smoking cigarettes.  The child is still in the womb, not ready to come forth yet.
I saw a little baby, drinking alcohol like a fish.  He drank from several bottles, and not out of a dish.
I saw a little baby, snorting *******.  Yet, once he is born, you expect him to remember his name.
How do we look to have healthy babies, when you yourself constantly smoke?  Before they come forth from the womb, you're pumping them with dope.
It's a good thing, once they are delivered, they do not instantly walk.  They would be so drunk staggering, they would have to halt.
It's a good thing, once they are delivered, they do not instantly talk.  They would have a slurry speech, all because it's your fault.
By, Author & Poet, Sandra Juanita Nailing

The air is cold,
and so is she
her once held warmth
now alludes me

The days are shorter,
She forgets my name
I am the hoarder
Of years of blame

The nights grow vast
And so does she
My stead is fast
And my conscience is free

Their skin is translucent
Veins crawl across their skin like vines
Their builds slim but rippling with muscles
They approach

Their eyes glow red
Color of blood from a beating heart
Pumping pumping pumping
They glow brighter as they spot their prey

Greasy black wings on their backs
Reflections of screaming faces seem to show
Faces of agony and fear
Right before they feed

Angels sent to earth because heaven didn't want them their
The devil takes them in gives them power
Because he was god's favorite and he was an angel once too

Their sent to punish those
Who escaped death and punishment
To get those who deserve it most
People like you

So used to dreading
Having to sleep alone.
Got used to depending
On you coming back home.
Never forgetting the nights
Held near.
Always reminding myself
That you aren't here.
When one departs
It breaks both apart.
Accepting the departure
Is what makes this life harder.
*jm

Pale as the pumpkin seed hulls.
Salted covered with tears.
Blustered bloom enchanter.
Grinned, and abolished sins.
Accursed and haunted, those who pestered.
Engulfed in snowy splendour!

Too many people
With dried tears on their pillows
Too many people 
With big hurt in their hearts
Too many people
Who would rather be beaten up
Than lose another lover.
Too many people
With a quiet mouth
That cannot speak of
Their past 
Too many people
Who keep to themselves
When their mind is racing
Of things that could be.