You are an annoying insect
Slithering into my space
Swarming around me
Ticking off my patience
Crawling up my nerves
Buzzing in my ears
Infecting my happiness
Bugging me more each moment
Yet I cannot bring myself
To **** you

Ticking of a forgotten clock

Broken mirror, and dusty old books-

Clutter the lifeless room

Scent of fading and falling rain;

wet the dry empty land

Touch, a shattered dream,

feel nothing now.

I am a lost memoir...

I light them up,
They fill my lungs.

I light them up,
They calm myself.

I lit you up,
And as you filled up my heart,
You took away my problems.

But the thing with the cigarettes is that they get to an end, and you finally throw them again.

I thought you were my everlasting cigarette, yet, I was your temporary one.

You lit me up, you filled me up with your lies, and you threw me away.

What a shame, being someone else's cigarette.

Clear, gushing currents make their way through moss-
y boulders; frosts chilly fingers past broken shores.
My toes kiss dancing pebbles, where the water lusts
for land. Accosted by the water’s eager
pull, my feet explore the slickness. The cold
attacking pure white limbs as I extend
and press into the ebb. The river moves
to grab my shivering leg, threatening with
seductive ease to rip me past
the surface, into dark, aggressive depths.
Anchored only by tingling toes, I’ll fall
if tiring muscles fail. Breathing, standing,
I feel the aching rush of currents. Then a simple
slap from a passing trout condemns
me to the murk that’s crying past. Stop.
Endure the numbness. My body
deserves to drown, for letting curious limbs
betray. I dream one day, I’ll delve
past new and pulsing streams to
a shore with both legs firmly
planted, closed, and clean.

Hardly, ever read a poetry.
Maybe a few, for school classes.
It was always like an array of lines,
only poets might understand.
But I grew up. I realized, that,
I was a fool. It had a man's
deepest sorrows, deepest desires.
An array of lines, too small
for a story, but almost a novel
for a reader to think.
I started to write.

Now I read, I write,
With an emptiness in my heart,
A desire to see one, the one,
I never found, A Poem,
Unique, as the dark stories of mine...

You opened a door
I wanted to keep shut
and now the things
I feared behind it
run loose and wild
dark thoughts take hold
multiplying, spreading
a disease I cannot cure
This darkness engulfs me
and your hand is just
barely out of reach