my first cigarette smoke was out of anger for a lover who left me hanging, bruised hearts and clammy palms, a puff that scratched at my throat which I smoothed down with a gulp of beer and regrets

my first cigarette smoke probably set my lungs on fire which made me smoke some more, day after day until eventually I felt my lungs were sore

I kept smoking and stopped trying to fall in love, an addiction like this is better to keep than to nurse broken ribs from a shattered heart

Poetry *****!
It shows my vulnerability!
It shows my compassion,  my understanding.

Poetry *****!
It let's others like you know I am human.
It shows you I'm sensitive,
And come with not only my arms, but also my defenses down.

Poetry *****!
Even at my weakest times,
Even while completely open.
My strengths shine through,
Showing my real side,
Darkness and light, that I just can't subside.

Out side beauty catches the eye.
While inner beauty,
Captures the soul.

With a dream filled flask
In an absent set mind,
His thoughts were at a stand still
-of time.

His beard long, matted and Grey
His thoughts old, fading, distant,
And aged.

His home was wherever he roamed,
His flask of dreams, is all he owned.

His well worn shoes covered his feet,
His abused heart, covered his sleeve.

I seen his blackened smile everyday,
Good morning, I'd reply as I walked away.

The same park bench every morning he'd lay.
Letting the chirps awaken his stay.

His name I did not know,
His life's road I did not know,
His morning story,
Was a man with a heart of gold.

Keeping your eyes closed
While your reflection is trying to see you.

My wine had spilled across the table
that day.
A cheap Chiante, the bottle rolled off
the table.
Causing a castatrophic scene on my
hard wood floor.
Cheap laminet, the glass lye on it's
side, on my glass table like a gun shot
victim.
Bleeding it's last ounce of sweet nectar
across it's ground.
I lit a smoke, leaving it on the middle
of the table.
Not in a ashtray and just rolling on the
only dry spot of my uneven table.
I took a black and white photo of the
spill.
Photo shopped it all night long and
proceeded to make a really cool picture.
I'm thinking of having it framed, for
you.
But then also know how much it would
be.
That's alot of dough for a cheap ***
spill of wine.
And perhaps way to much thought I
have, or way to much time.

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

I am lost.
Yet,
Something is telling me you are just like me.
Maybe
We were put in the darkness
To find each other.