Lonely there is a female, just a small girl in all punctuality
and she sits upon the curb of a lovely looking marble paved road
Only the road is no longer marble, it is dusted with the fragments of ash
from the cigarettes she puffs away at, every day until her lungs constrict
The boa made of exaggerated smoke always is pulling upon her air passages
never wanting to let her esophagus be cooled by crisp and clean air
Her feet are bare, frozen and bleeding, leaving drops of blood behind
trails from where she's once been, and where the girls' feet will travel
Beaten and bruised, thrown and spat out, she was the trash of society and its remains
but in all actuality, society was the men she slept with, and she, only wanting cover of the rain at night
Forced into what they called sensuality, but the young girl closes off her emotions and senses
and wished for a home to call her own, but never feeling the want in her heart enough to stay
This girls clothing is ragged, shredded and torn, wrinkled from the nights she's spent
in a strangers arms, she takes danger by the horn, receives herself a death call instead
A disease has been forming, and it grows in magnitude with each passing strangers call
thus the girl has fallen upon her knees, and the disease still finds a way to pass along its young
The female has tried to quit, with her way of life, but the bills keep a'coming, and she is still in need
the hunger inside her drives her raving mad, it is slightly ludicrous, this lunatic she's become
To feed upon a strangers flesh, to conquer her unrighteous lusting and her want
this is the girl that we see who is foolish in her ways, as she folds her hands to her breast
Hands are paled and over worked, dry and calloused never have a bout of rest
so trustful in their own ways, hardy they work like crusted placid tools
Still upon the paved road she sits, crunching her bones into a ball
her skin is increasingly thin, no wonder she gasps with pain for every movement she makes
This young girl, is young enough to let the tears cascade over her heavily dolled up face
her cosmetic encrusted eyes run, covering her make-up splashed face even more
The grime and dirt smudged upon her face from being splashed by non-helping passer byes
and her mouth is made up of a slashed and jagged pair of lips, from lipstick she put on
Smears her great complexion , with the fiery burn of stained glass that was meant for cheeks
thinning roses of auburn, painted with a closed precision, soaked with raccoon cosmetics
Fearfully she sits, silent as water, her fluid running out as if the air around
whips her inside, and eats her on the outside, it begun by freezing her skeleton over
For she was always their (as in men)collected victim and she begun to wonder why
her fellow human's never had believed her she saw through her crystal tears
That doll faced men and doll faced women, had a secret they kept
they only wanted to play God with the clown she had become

No late fees.
Low interest.
Borrowed money,
on loan, on their time.
Credit to the blue collar
workers who pays their bills
on time.
Save minimum wage or
incur a fine.
To keep big business profitable,
they must nickel and dime.

People are in the practice
of pinching pennies,
with hopes of avoiding
suited enemies.
Prosperity and posterity
is now a foreign concept,
or spoken in a different language.
The idea of it is sent overseas,
as third world countries
receive a taste of a marketable life.
Some assembly required.
Passivity admired.

Independence goes in the vault.
Lock and key.
Land of the fee.
Well, free with an
additional purchase
or the start of a new account.
Better to have you accounted for.
Better to put all of their eggs in one basket.

A basket that is fashioned
in another country.
For a country
that is going to hell,
and can't afford
the casket.

The cigarette burns aren't fading
only become less painful and more scabbed over.
When I first saw her, I was happy, please understand.
I saw her entering the cafe from my position opposite the door.
Brett Shady was playing the center of the room but my attention was not on him, not entirely.
She and her boyfriend took the only standing room still available in the far corner.
I'm not sure if she saw me but I think she did.
I think she kissed her boyfriend after she first saw me, which is fine.
I would have done the same, had our rolls been reversed.
After a few more songs I could no longer bear it. I stepped
outside.
I walked two blocks up the rode from the cafe to Bonanza Market.
I bought a pack of cigarettes and walked even further up the hill.
There, I found my favorite spot, one which I had found with a dear friend.
There is a swing hanging under a big tree, surrounded by flowers.
I must have went through half the pack before deciding to move on.
I figured I'd catch the rest of the show from the door.
Walking back however, something caught my eye.
A play was just beginning at the Nevada Theatre and I heard it was semi decent.
I snuck in through the side as I had done many times before and took my seat.
On stage, performing a small girl was another girl who I had kissed.
Who I loved.
When I first saw her I think she saw me too.
I looked down feeling a tear in my eye.
When I looked up I was sure.
She was looking at me with a sort of pleasant smile on my face.
As if she'd known what I was feeling.
The regret, the sadness, the longing.
All these things came rushing up inside me so quickly that I had to leave.
I again went to my favorite spot and finished the pack, saving a few cigarettes for that night.
Oh God, how I would need them.
I walked back to maybe see the end of Brett Shady's set. The show was over however.
Walking out was a friend of mine who I had not spoken to in a while. I waved her down and we began talking. About what I remember not. But it took my mind off things.

A while after a girl I had onced kissed and had once kissed me walked out of the cafe with her boyfriend.
She smiled at the friend I was with, not sparing me a glance.
My friend turned to me
"How could you let her go, Nolan? Why would you let her go?''
I turned my back to her and began walking.
Two or maybe three ours later I arrived home, all my tears shed.
I didn't sleep that night.
The face of the girl and her boyfriend came flooding into my dreams as the tears had off my face.
The face of the ******* stage came flooding into my mind as the nicotine had done my blood.
Regret was sharing my bed that night.
Whispering in my ear accusingly "How could you have let her go?"
Pain was in my room that night.
Roughly fondling my heart as if it were a stone.
Sadness was kissing my mouth that night.
Only allowing whimpers to come out.

There is a small patch of forest just next to my house.
When I was little my sister and I would go there and dance and sing.
Today I decided to visit. Beer bottles and empty cigarette packs littered the ground.
I had been there in a while but someone had. I sat down on a rotting log and pulled out my own pack of cigarettes.
I stayed there, sitting on that log, accompanied by my thoughts and the sound of the wind rushing through the pines above.
It's as if the trees were speaking to me.

In an ancient and eminent language they whispered.
They told me stories the Moon wanted to remain unknown.
They sang to me songs the birds first whistled.
And with strength the river envied they swept me away.
The innocence of the pines was obvious in this serene place.