The packet contains
Nothing but death
And yet they gobble it down
As if it was the air,
That can't find its way

Smoke blinds them
Coughing up their cigarette breaks
As they **** the vile thing
That might as well drive them mad

Blessed with perfect lungs
Inhale. Exhale.
Destroy whatever is left
Who gives a ****,
You can still smell the daisies
On bottled oxygen

The nerve, the idiocy
To cheat death,
Playing Russian roulette
With six bullets in

Tears are so heavy;
You swear you'll float
After
every.
       last.
           one.
               is shed
Like a well worn pair of jeans

The moon is worn out tonight
Tired of metaphors,
Tired of running from poem

to poem

Rushing to and frow
Circling every
last
word.

For one he's a peacemaker
Having fire for eyes
And -
For the other -
He's actually a woman
Ice cold and solid stone.

I

Narcissistic children,
Boxed and printed just right

II

Next to the balloon
And the glue and the paints
Granting paper mache dreams

III

Pitter-patter bird steps,
What a ****** job

IV

Too small font,
too little time
Simply tossed away

There's another way,
Another time,
Another place
To echo back promises
Trickled from sand rivers,
Which not only devour,
but liberate,
The finer things
Like the dust bunnies
Snuggled where they shouldn't be
And the love they fluffed in secret

I fell in love
With the sound of you.
The very thought
That you could be
Divided
Into simple syllables
And, yet, mean
More than the complexities
Of feeling you -
Made the air
Burst forth into my lungs
And breathe hope.

You could give life
And color
But now you lay there,
Weeping,
While Webster himself
Shakes his head.

You could have meant more than ever imagined,
If only you had been written in French.

My heart clenches,
and quivers like my body.

My lungs are revolting,
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.