Did you ever hear the tale of the loneliest cigarette?
Bringing short term pleasure to just one man, while simultaneously burning herself away into oblivion, she is selfless.
He'll soon kick her to the kerb and stamp out her embers which she offered to him because it's what she thought he wanted.
When she is gone, he will take another.
*And she will be useless. Lifeless. Unwanted. Replaceable.

his smile more intriguing than that depicted in the mona lisa.

his hair so golden it puts van gogh's sunflowers to shame.

his eyes pop brighter than lichtenstein's art.

eat your heart out, monet, for my man is far more beautiful than impressionist landscapes.

and why did michelangelo not paint my darling on the sistine chapel?
for he is an angel on earth.

for he is a work of art.

Bound together in ecstasy
Bodies shaking,
Pupils dilating.
No one I'd rather see.
No place I'd sooner be.
Because nothing makes more sense
Than the thought of *you and me.

Drip, drip, drip
From the bracelets of blood.
Drip, drip, drip
From the salty eye-flood.
Drip, drip, drip
Followed by thud thud thud.
Drip, drip, drip
In the rain and the mud.
Drip, drip, drip
In the mud and the rain.
Drip, drip, drip
Sounds like the loneliest pain.
Drip, drip, drip
All over again.
Drip, drip, drip
Walk but don't trip.
Drip, drip, drip
Go on, just one more sip.
Drip, drip, drip
And then glug, glug, glug
Drip, drip, drip*
Until you're sick, sick, sick.

I prefer the way you feel between my thighs than inside my head.

A to B and A to B
Then back to A and back to B.
Monotonously making their way round the map
Taking Tom, ****, and Harry from A to B.

Oh, where would we be
Without the drivers who transport anyone that they see?
Enabling us to go about our lives no matter who or where we may be?

To allow old Mable to get out and about
Or old man Joe to leave the house.

To help adolescent Amy to see friends across town
And **** time for Doris by simply driving her around.

I know we complain that they so rarely smile
But think of how far they can take you, for miles.

I know we complain that at times they are late
And I know that the one guy made you miss your hot date

But think of that time you were saved from the rain
And how the bus helped you when your legs were in pain.

Think of that time you were saved from the exercise
Which we in 2015 do so despise.

This isn't ironic, it's a genuine ode
To the bus driver heroes to who I do owe.

Breathing, panting, moaning into each other's mouths.
Lick. ****. Kiss.
Hot in every sense of the word
And every sense is heightened.
Grab. Pull. ******.
Flesh on flesh. Skin on skin.
Eye contact. Lip biting.
My nails in your back,
Your whispers in my ear.
Your name escapes my lips like a bird taking first flight.
And from this high, we leap together.
Falling and sinking, deeper and deeper.

Crazy am I driven by the idea,
the possibility,
of another's kiss on your collarbone.
I recall St Valentine's Day,
when your **** Jagger lips told me
'I'm yours'
with such sincerity
and that I could hold you to it.
And I will.

Tell me,
what is so sweet about sixteen?

The layering of lashes in an attempt to age just two more years?

The relief when the shopkeeper served you that Smirnoff Ice?

And the excitement of drinking it in a park?

If you were lucky, the occasional spliff stolen from someone's older sibling?

Sweet is the nostalgia
but sweet is not the rawness of the reality.
Living the teenage tragedy is bitter and sour and tasteless.

Late nights
filled with mascara tears
fuelled by heartbreak.

Your rose-tinted spectacles see past the vomiting and the headaches and the regrets.

Would you do it all over again?
And would you do it exactly the same?

This is fine.
This is just fine as long as it doesn't go in my hair.
My fringe is hanging down a little.
What if it goes in my fringe?
I can't adjust my hair now, it'll ruin the mood...
Just look ****.

Oh god, he's looking at me.
I can't make eye contact with him, it's too weird.
Maybe I should close my eyes and roll my head back and make some sort of moaning sound.
That's a thing isn't it?
That's a thing girls do in ****?
It probably is.

****. I am not a **** star.
This can't look hot.
I think I'll give a nervous giggle.
Maybe it'll sound ****.

Great, now he thinks you're laughing at his *****.

No he doesn't.
He knows you love his *****.
Well, as much as you can love a *****.
It does feel good, but they just don't look very attractive do they?
Especially not when they're thrusting in front of your face.

Stop it - focus.
Don't focus! Relax!
Be in the mood.

How long does this take?
He's using his hand, surely he's a pro at this.
Why is he taking so long?
It's probably only been thirty seconds.
I hope it's been longer, I'm running out of ****** expressions.
Maybe I should talk *****?
But what if it goes in my mouth while I'm trying to speak?

Oh, he's grunting.
This must be...

It's in my ******* fringe.

I remember that night as clearly as the stars did shine for us. Who'd have known that a secret touch and a stolen kiss would lead to such beautiful agony?

I'll never forgive my washing machine.
How it took the last of you away from me.
How it lathered
and rinsed
and drained your musk.
"Confident and fresh" you used to mock the slogan.
Now the fabric smells of softener,
And the colour's crisp and pure.
And it's just a tshirt again.

Soles hang,
Souls hang
Amongst the green.
They dangle, pleading of acknowledgment.
They twirl in their places,
Connected by their laces.
Countless but clear.
The shoe tree whispers "we were here"

Persistently you go
But she still says no,
Damaging your ego.
Then finally you date her
Though you know you'll learn to hate her
Like you hated all the rest.
But still you try your best.
High maintenance, she puts you to the test.
You accuse her of being a cheater
Which justifies how you beat her,
And the way you mistreat her.
Know you should be sweeter
But still you fail.
Repeat of past lovers,
You bail.
She's just like the others.
Girls are all the same
And *** and love are games.
Boy, don't you feel ashamed?
You think relationships are lame
So you again you quit;
Go find a hit
Because reality is ****.
You need a high to escape
From the feelings you hate
And the fear in her face.
But what's this? Now you want her back?
Realised she's the one who kept you on the right track?
Sober up and then you beg her to stay,
Beg her not to go away,
And not to leave you by yourself
Like an unwanted book collecting dust on the shelf.
Your power over her has gone,
She knows she's done no wrong,
Now she's singing better songs
About how she's moved on
So she ups and leaves.
She saw right through the tricks all hidden up your sleeves.
Should've treated her better
While you had the chance.
She's wearing someone else's sweater
She ain't under your trance
She ain't under your spell
Because now she's with somebody who can treat her well.

A girl's bedroom is full of choices
Which she must choose to stop the voices.

Hair curly or hair straight?
Leave early or just wait?
Tall stilettos or comfy flats?
Quirky bag or one to match?

The saddest part of this conundrum
Is she's trying to impress a special someone
Who'll work his way into her bed
And then join the monsters in her head.

Outside I sense the streets' hustle and bustle.
Inside, not even a rustle.
Who'd have known the city could be so lonely?
Thousands of faces but none of them know me.
Cold coffee. Uncomfortable small talk.
No familiar paths for me to walk.
The place that I connect not to, but they call home.
Their foundation, their roots, where I am alone.

I am merely another story
Behind another window.
With or without me,
The game goes on.
Drowning in skyscrapers.
Crushed by industrialisation.
Suffocated from the inexhaustible thrill of the city.
I am enchanted by my insignificance

What's the point
In wasting time and wasting ink
When I can't verbalise the thoughts I think?

That night with you,
I learned the secret of it all.
The secret of love and how to fall.

In case you wonder
How you ever will know,
Spend time in silence and love should grow.

For we shared a glance,
A glance that pitifully pleaded.
And with that we knew that no words were needed.

Ear studs.
Leather gloves.
Silver nose ring.
Too much clothing.
You think you like records?
You should see his collection.
You think that you're flawless?
You should see his complexion.
He rocks Houndstooth better than any chick you ever seen,
And even more fiercely than a 2009 *McQueen.
The boy with peroxide hair is one to watch out for.
When he enters the room there's applause; he's to die for!
"Don't dream it, just be it*" that's what he always said
He's a bad killer queen, he's the one, the only, *Ed.

My 2am drunk phone call.
Underage ***** in a park.
'Don't tell mum' I plead you
'That I stayed out after dark'.

My shoes in your hand
And your shoes on my feet.
You tell me I'm not broken,
You make me feel complete.

I can't express the sense of pride
I feel to share your genes.
You'll never know my love for you
Or just how much you mean.

Take me home
To the place that I know.
Where the grass is greener
And the air smells sweeter.
Take me to Neptunes fountain and the parks and the hills,
Where I can walk down a street without being offered pills.

Take me home
Where I'm never alone.
To the place I adore
And will cherish forever more.
Take me to the racecourse, the promenade and town hall,
Where I bask in bliss under the starlit sky, and deeper still I fall.

Kinda lost in my mind that's made of candy floss.
Everything's a blur in my green and hazy world.
Floating on a cloud where the silence is too loud.
Oh I love my cotton candy brain.

It's a dull, lifeless existence for the middle class girl.

But I wanted to feel something.
I wanted to feel something real.

Electrified by the thrill of your touch; the light pressure of your fingertips on the small of back that sent shivers down my spine, awakening carnal instincts I knew not that I had.
Your kiss that infected me with the rush adrenaline which I would crave forever more, and search desperately to rediscover. And I never could. I never will.

Tell me you know he's here.
Tell me "come home, you're mine".
Shouting out in the town
We don't care who's around
Because this is the last time.

Silence on the freeway
Until we get to the driveway at home.
With one hand up my shirt,
And one hand up my skirt,
You tell me I'm not alone.

It was beautiful agony
For two years, maybe three.
Kept me trapped with each kiss
And the ring in your lip
And you knew I'd never leave.

A post-*** serenade.
Drank your Kool-Aid, I was blind.
Overdosed you with love
When you didn't give me enough.
I guess we're a different kind.

Memories are personal.

An experience may, at first, appear to have been shared by a number of people:

A concert, a meeting, a party, a date...

But upon closer analysis you realise that no two people have ever really shared an experience, a moment, a time, a memory.

That concert.
Attended by thousands.
But did they notice the short-lived beads of sweat rushing to death as they escape the forehead of the crazed fan beside you?

And that date.
There was two of you there.
But did she see the way you looked at her, besotted, and grinned when she dropped her fork? And the way you pretended not to notice?

No amount of camera roll and no 140 character tweet can do justice to the complexity of the human memory.

Finite,
irreplaceable,
and totally unique.

My brain must hate me.
What reason, other than that, to explain why I'm constantly tortured by the mental image of him. And her.
Him and her.
Him with her.

I'm going crazy trying to think of new ways to tell you that you're perfect. That your smile gives me a whole new reason for life. Three words match perfectly, with a whole new understanding, but it isn't enough. It doesn't do justice to the way it feels to wake up in up in your arms, or the butterflies I get when you catch my eye. While the search seems impossible, I'm still going to try. But for now I suppose that "I love you" will do.

Twilight.
Late at night.
Beautiful sight.

She blinks.
Heels in her hand, mascara flakes onto her rosey cheeks.
Swaying,
Secretly praying,
Silently in her mind.
Even more silently in her heart.
Who knows what of?
Who cares?

She thinks.
These are the best days of her life.
At least that's what they told her.
Eighteen,
Singing Springsteen,
Loudly in the streets.
Drunk and disorderly,
Who knows who she'll meet?
And who cares?

I hate myself and my impatient ways
And how I overthink **** for days and days.

I hate the way I envy those better than me
And the way that seems to be everybody I see.

I hate how I cry every time I'm alone
And how they pronounce it 'scon' when I say it's 'scone'.

I hate that I'm lonely in a room full of mates
And my belief that I'm unappealing while I refuse any dates.

I really detest my mousy brown hair
And I hate how I'm here when I'd rather be there.

I'm starting to think never happy will I be
But maybe I could if I just wasn't me.

Waking up in the remains of regret with eyes that are dead,
Awkwardly exploiting the generous distance of your king sized bed.
We are physically together but emotionally apart.
I know it isn't me whose name is etched into your heart.
Dressing in the daylight, our eyes daren't to connect.
We share a final cigarette, it's all that we have left.
I know it's her you think of when you put on your jeans
Because it's he who I'm still longing for in each and every dream.

It is more than family photos
Hanging on a wall.
It is much more than a garden,
Where as toddlers we may fall.
It is much more than a roof,
Standing over some red brick.
More than a place for us to shelter
Whenever we get sick.
It's more than flowers on a mantlepiece,
And endless cups of tea.
Home is not a place,
Home is letting me be me.

Her house:
Now home to one person and a million memories.
It used to be their house, until he passed.

They told her to move,
But she never did like moving on.
And so she never did.

At the wake they brought her flowers.
Flowers that were soon to leave her,
Just like everyone else had.

I lay in your bed.
I shouldn't have been there.
But still I lay in your bed,
And I found a hair.
Too long to be yours.
Too blonde to be mine.
I'm no longer yours,
But I still wish you were mine.

An actor I may be,
But only by Degree.
I guess you don't need a Drama School
To take the world as a bunch of fools.
You learn your lines,
Say you need "time",
And always play it cool.

A musician you may be,
But only by Degree.
Perhaps I should sing along
Next time you write a song.
Sing the highs and the lows,
And the cliche sorrows.
And wonder where we went wrong.

Today I cried because my arms are fat
And my eyes aren't pretty unless lined like a cat

I don't want to be the mousy brunette
Of average height and intellect

I want to be that edgy girl who rocks vintage clothes
And collects records, and reads, and looks like Bridget Bardot

Not good enough for you, but how can I forget
When my mind constantly replays the moment we met?

Another second,
Minute,
Hour on the clock
Reminds me the end is drawing nearer
And that, I cannot stop.

Twenty Six days left of your gaze that sees through me,
That sees through my facade of endless positivity.
Twenty Six days until the growing apart,
Until the increasing distance and the breaking of heart.
But see, Twenty Six days just isn't enough
Because, with you my darling, I'm still so much in love.

How bitter sweet to be entwined for one last time.
And for one last dance to the song of our united breath.
How bitter sweet to be given one last chance to shine.
Who'd have known a goodbye could be so welcoming?

He is the only one who I truly need.
The one whose arms shield and protect me as a castle does a queen.
When I am sad his are the only hands which can wipe away my tears,
And he wields the only smile that can sooth my soul and rid my fears.
His eyes, oh how his beautifully cliche eyes see me. All of me.
It takes a fool to fall in love
And a fool to run from it.
I know one day he'll break my heart
And there'll be nobody to blame.
He'll be worth the pain when we part
And no one else will be the same.
He is the only one.

I've written 64 poems about you.
Let this be the last.
I plead and I beg you,
Become a thing of my past.

If you love me
Then leave me
Like you left me before,
When you left me for dead on our ***-tainted floor.

Get out, get out of my brain and my head,
Out from under my skin and the sheets of my bed.

I'm not asking for our memories to be all erased,
Just asking to ease the pain of lovesick and daze.
I'm asking for my thoughts to be clear of this haze,
And to find love easier than in the paths of this maze.

Is it too much to ask to come down from your high?
To remove the imprint of handprint from my hideous thigh?
To fall down from something which once made me fly?
This rhyme scheme's a mess and I can only guess why.
It symbolises the chaotic and desperate tears that I cry.
And I cry off my makeup only to reapply
Mascara tears that give me another black eye.
And I cry and I cry till my eyes are run dry.
Want to know something else I hate about I?
I said this is the last but I know that's a lie.

My life has been misleading
Or at least that's how it seems.
I've been brought up on lies on love
And fairytale dreams.

But now that I am older
I feel I've been deceived.
Nobody told the truth to me:
That sometimes people leave.

What are you thinking
At eight in the morning
When you sit there drinking
Your coffee and yawning?

Is it merely desire
To go back to sleep?
In the bed, by the fire,
Counting your sheep.

Do you think of me
And my unpainted face?
Is it my two sugar tea?
Or my empty bookcase?

Is it reflection of past
Or a fear of now?
Or how I always asked
When you never knew how?

What are you thinking
At eight in the evening
When you sit there drinking
Your red wine, not speaking?

The picture spoke a thousand lies,
A thousand lies but not a word.
We stare, obsess, we analyse,
But not a word was spoke or heard.
That intoxicated smile hides
That painful party, now a blur.
Pictures mask what stays inside
And only show us as we were.
No fair display of life in truth,
They capture only our disguise.
She appeared content for all her youth,
A theory which she now denies.

We send each other love songs to express what we don't know how to say.
Freaky adolescents in the night but epitomising sophistication by day.
We send each other love songs to express what we cannot conprehend.
The looks of disapproval we'd give when they refer to us as 'friends'.
I tremble under his touch and I linger under his lips
While he takes a deep breath and tells himself to always remember this.

Scary yet essential.
I have forgotten how to do it.