with the gift of eyesight i was given,
pupils to gaze from, with the corneas of a heathen.

when he saw the iris's of one whose iris's are like those
of iris's in meadow; vast and wondrous.

he thought it was cataracts, but 'twas only a head-cold,
deep in the mind, where the his cortex got cerebral,

his gray matter gave colorful thoughts
to a black & white consciousness,

and was forever engraved
into the brain of what was seen as a sane man

who never staked his claim
as a brain full of grayscale, but  heart full of gold.

Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later,
I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be.
That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed
in the past three years by me,
in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest.
I'm surprised I haven't died,
or contracted a malignant growth in my throat,
or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up,
or haven't choked on the smell,
or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap.

Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve
of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in.
I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself.

In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster,
it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer
to friends I once hid away with and shared moments
over cigarettes.
But back to my point,
way back then, when I met you.
I didn't want to smell like smoke,
I didn't want you to hate it on me.
I didn't need to curb the anxiety.
I didn't want to taste like lung cancer.
I didn't want to remind you of what you hate.
It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic
(rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint,
but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say.
I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed.
You don't know I wanted to, though,
I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse;
we both wanted more,
and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day.
I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred,
I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.

I missed you more than amphetamines,
or hollow holy vows sprouting out of me. you
used to reroute my scowls and transform them into smiles,
but no curve of any lips are quite like your's.
I don't know how you do it or how you did it,
it sickens me nights,
it's been hard to word things and I feel so empty,
with a cavernous head and a dread of the feeling that I've been feeling, I need comforting.

we haven't talked in ages, I wrote this by a state line, I was so close to breaking
that I stopped laughing about my problems.
It's been tainting my happiness, further proving,
that gaping hole I've grown to know.

All I want to care about is our swollen lips,
But I can barely fit into my own skin.
I can try my hardest my show you me,
I can try my hardest to let you in,
I’ve had problems with that; I hate my skin.

skies have been brighter.
nights have been nicer.
usually the light at the end of my sight
is a horizon; a sunrise.
(not like they lead to amazing grace)
but, the past few days,
no, weeks,
no, months,
have been a grace from a God I don’t believe;
It’s been you.
I hate saying it,
but poems don’t do it justice,
and songs just get repetitive.
Somehow I feel a reason to live.
I could give you a heart on a platter,
I could give you anything I can humanly procure,
or at least I’d try,
or in my dreams, if ever I do rest,
I’d love to acquire your head on my chest,
your breath on my neck,
your hand in my hair.
I don’t know how I can bare thinking about this all the time.
I mean that in the most positive way,
because I love it, and I do everyday.
I’ll cut this short, I could write you a novel,
Here’s my heart of pyrite, put it in your locket and hold it tight,
keep it by your chest when you say
"goodnight."

it feels like a valve of my heart is missing
 from the way you left;

you left me bereft from comfort and kindness. 

now I’ve been a mindless deconstructed mess.

I would let your shaky hands cut me into a million tiny pieces and sew me back together,

even if you never knew my anatomy like I knew yours.

but you took a scalpel to my heart, and every artery in between and somehow ripped me apart,
not even caring about the seams

left from when my father left and left me fatherless.

I’ve never knew a compassion like you;
with your heart of compasses and open seas. 

I wish I knew what you used to see in me.

now all I see is an open ocean and the thought of drowning

with a capacity of the lovely letters you said and you had the audacity to ask
“do you want to kiss me?”

now I’ll leave you alone and you leave me, 
we’ll be both miss eachother, and how we used to be.

but remember me as the mess you left,
when you ripped my heart out of my chest.