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Jonathan-E-WilliamsPoems
One more cigarette One less thought captured by my notebook I know I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat One with Silver Sherman's and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow Yet I've spent more time Lighting Maduro paper than sparking ideas onto trees that are utilized for musings rather than consumption I inhale carbon monoxide, (in line following the crowd -- by choice) Rather than exhaling the same for the leaf-lungs of trees I stretch for something A dichotomy of Pockets Paper lined for thoughts or Tobacco twined for my subduing One more, One less One more circus of circumstance, One less bridge to nowhere One more apple to pick, One less bone I wonder, "When the sands of time should be sifted through my hands and not my mind?" But my mind continuously filters, wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone amounts to more or less You fool! Stop staring at the back of the clock Discontinue your prescription to madness! Watch instead the gears turning not in anxious fear, but in wondrous awe Everything: a means to its own end; not an end to its own means And yet, blackened by the smoke, hardened by the repitition, you take another drag And all I can say is that my throat screams for tea and my mind for resolution One more thought, One less execution. -- I know That if I was self-driven enough I could compose a chart (or a melody) that shows the correlation between the distance of you from my thoughts and the intimacy of nicotine to my mouth
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Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
One More, One Less
One more cigarette One less thought captured by my notebook I know I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat One with Silver Sherman's and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow Yet I've spent more time Lighting Maduro paper than sparking ideas onto trees that are utilized for musings rather than consumption I inhale carbon monoxide, (in line following the crowd -- by choice) Rather than exhaling the same for the leaf-lungs of trees I stretch for something A dichotomy of Pockets Paper lined for thoughts or Tobacco twined for my subduing One more, One less One more circus of circumstance, One less bridge to nowhere One more apple to pick, One less bone I wonder, "When the sands of time should be sifted through my hands and not my mind?" But my mind continuously filters, wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone amounts to more or less You fool! Stop staring at the back of the clock Discontinue your prescription to madness! Watch instead the gears turning not in anxious fear, but in wondrous awe Everything: a means to its own end; not an end to its own means And yet, blackened by the smoke, hardened by the repitition, you take another drag And all I can say is that my throat screams for tea and my mind for resolution One more thought, One less execution. -- I know That if I was self-driven enough I could compose a chart (or a melody) that shows the correlation between the distance of you from my thoughts and the intimacy of nicotine to my mouth
Written by
Jonathan-E-Williams
21/American
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
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