What is it about cigarettes
that makes them poetic
is it the fire or being
a reminder of death
is it the stink
that pushes people away
but mixes perfectly with
the fingers that so delicately
hold onto the smoke
is it the feeling it gives
when you know
you hate what you do
when you feel a little power
in your fingertips
a nihilistic view of life
is it the lips that
inevitably look sweet to taste
maybe it's the soul in looking for

Tea stained blotches
Slowly spread across
thick green leaves
as July is pulled into
August. Fat blackberries
Are scattered into hedgerows of
Cow parsley.
Brambles reach out their forked
Fingers and nettles swallow the pathways.
I am looking forward to autumn
When I am no longer in a busy emerald city
But instead in cool quiet
Trudging through golden bracken.

Some names will always feel like a sin, dripping from our lips.

I found a letter you wrote
when you were thirteen
and it doesn't bleed right
it barely reads right.
In youth there was fear
and lightning and violence
and sure maybe you weren't
complete but you were whole.
An island on which only you
could stand.
You could look into the distance
but you couldn't see forever
and maybe it scared you
but it didn't really matter.
You didn't deserve forever, anyway.
I read the letter and didn't
see you anymore.
Time and tide have long since
had their effect.
The island has gone
the violence
the silence
the fear
they've gone, too.
I look out into the distance
and I can see forever
but this letter,
these scared pages,
they aren't me
and by that, I mean you.

adults make me scared of
becoming two dimentional

is this my last year
of seeing in color?

if my eyes start to look like yours,
all lifeless and disappointed

i'd rather die young