she held the cigarette between her index finger as if she was pointing towards her next foreseeable victim, but shortly it was blown out, the remaining ashes lit at the end of her tip. her cardamom eyes simmered, square but foundational, a million could love her.

the mists have returned
to this ancient wood
what a time to light up
a cigarette or two
and pretend like nothing's changed
and nothing ever changes
make myself believe
that on the filter i don't taste her lips
and in the mist her eyes
glancing back and forth
her lips around my cigarette
her eyes around my secret sorrow
and my body
and everything i ever was
in the woods i am collapsing
my body twitches
and i decompose
the nicotine has done me in
i swear it was the nicotine
i swear

my ol' hobby
smoking you in
harming my kin
takin the pill
going in all out for the ****

you're white and yellow
sore and mellow
you give out gray
you're my demise they say
make me gay

you make my lungs hurt
but smoking you in makes me feel like kurt
holding the guitar
smoking a cigarette

I see a cigarette
It's almost disappointing how many times
my poetry turns into prose at the mention
of a cigarette

because they represent everything I long for
in the wrong ways
and they taste so good
but they're not something I would die for

instead they remain in the past
or the present or in the **** presence that rings
softly in my ears begging me to come back
to quietly but swiftly move past

I bought myself;-
A single cigarette to share with my ex

Being as smoked out, choked up;
And in between coughing throughout
A prayer to God, I'm still not
Addicted to them.

You smoke me like a cigarette, absorbing the nicotine to relieve yourself
Then you drop it to the ground and twist your foot onto it
I observe how you hold the new cigarette between your fingers, the cloud you exhale drifting away into the sky
I am useless to you now. Just like any other girl

I wish a dream was easy to buy into
like a cancer stick;— dying for a piece.
Inhaling vapors, and blowing off
smoke in a puff of dreams.

Life is like a cigarette; an addiction
to living with feelings of regret.
Time is all ashes, slowly deducting
your frame till death,
And love consumes the lungs;
too much of the wrong kind,—becomes toxic.
To advertise the biggest buyers of such dreams
for a rich life like a **** cigarette;
To be honest with the kind of addiction,
being rich appears costly.

But I guess if I'm an old truck blowing
smoke, it just means I'm exhausted.
Addicted to the cigarette life,
whether tip toeing, or running towards death,
either side, do play it cautious.
Cos whatever end you smoke the cigarette,
all roads lead to death.

i think people don’t ever understand what i mean
he hands her his cigarette
as if in wordless consolation
she does not smoke
and she has never touched a cigarette until this moment
she meets his extended hand half way
she wraps her fingers around the instrument
as if it were a crutch
your cigarette anchors you
she tells him, but does not think he understands
he anchors her
anchor on rocky bay
the world around them is the wind
and she is the boat
mercilessly, harshly rocked
on the water's surface
until she is hitting the rocky shore
over and over
over and over
hurting
just to stay anchored to him
i wish you understood.