Before I started draining parts of me
onto this page
I couldn't see for the clearest of paths,
I would dwell,
Hide away in my own safe house
Of saturated stories.

I would scratch my head catching gravity
between my fingertips.
A color would be a rainbow in black skies
of circling crows.

The floor around me would move
dancing along,
It would lead me and my pen to paper
Like a knight's sword to stone.
I would wonder why my mind
Could paint,
My thoughts would explode
into millions of fireflies.

Sometimes I would see the most
flawless imagery
But I couldn't write it down for the awe
of being lost,
Inside my own world of untold stories,
and poetry.

As we hop over the boggy river
We leap like gazelles,
Trying not to get wet
But someone always falls in,
Our muddy hands and knees
Would remind us of our success,
Wet feet not so much.

We would throw rocks
Attempting to skim them on the surface,
Remembering the disappointment
Of only hopping two or three times,
But carrying on for hours until
You finally got that golden throw
That raises trophies.

Sap and moss would cling
To your soft skin,
Making it rough like the bark
That you had been climbing,
But our innocence was as pure
As the nature I grew to love
And continue to love.

"You should really stop that.”
I look over at her, quizzical.


She points to the cigarette dangling from my mouth and gives me the basic line that everyone says to a smoker. 

“It’s not healthy.”

“I could stop smoking at any given moment, yknow.” As I crush the supposed  cancer stick to the dirt, resisting the urge of an eye-roll. 
She’s watching me, obviously waiting for an explanation. 

God, why does she care? No one ever has before.
“It wouldn’t be hard, I mean, I’m not addicted or anything. ”

She laughs and suddenly I’m trying to ignore how good it sounds.
“Isn’t that what all addicts say?”

“I’m serious.” Judging by the look on her face, I know that wasn’t the answer she wanted. So I stopped sugar coating it.

“I just don’t quit because I’d rather **** myself in a way that’s more..socially accepted. People don’t notice as much- they call me a smoker, not suicidal. I like it that way. ”