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Yemaya 7d
She longed for his lips
instead the only thing she kissed
was her seventh cigarette
D A W N Jun 11
i lit my cigarette like a birthday candle
and i wished for your name
through my puffed up coughs
and bleary eyes
this job ***** but atleast i met new n cool ppl ;ppp
D A W N Jan 8
a stick
will keep
my thoughts
of you
-im hungry
Here I am sitting
on my comfortable chair
enjoying my new years eve
smoking cigarette
and reading Zarathustra.

This is my first poem
in 2022!
Indonesia, 1st January 2022
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
I was woken up by a nightmare.
I woke up in the middle of the night
when I had fallen asleep
and a poem was finished.
The silence makes the painting 
in the air I breathe,
feel heavy, feel suffocating.
My throat is dry.
And on such a thirsty night,
a poem ordered an inkbox
and a piece of paper,
and I ordered a bottle of beer
and a cigarette and also a lighter,
and night ordered

itself for me.
Indonesia, 29th December 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
SF Couture Dec 2021
The staining aroma we so avidly inhaled in the reign of night
At tables made of glass that reflet the moonlight
The faint white illumination lit our misdeeds of younger
Keeps me reminiscent of days of simpler

Plagued & blessed by lack of consideration
No respect for damnation
We lived without hesitation to be free
To feel we truly needed to be

I sit alone now inhaling what was once shared and sought-after
Feeling but trying not to think-of those days of before
Watching storms roll through, making me feel spectator to memories of more
I retreat into myself, knowing those days are over

I could never imagine I'd look back on those days and call them simpler.
I keep running from what i can't see and it's lead me in circles
Cycle through the times to get to the next
A person watches a passing storm and reminisces over then and now
I am holding
my last cigarette
and sitting.
Reading my favorite novel,
Vanity Fair.
Pouring the wine.
I used to drink all the night
with some friends
that nobody knows about them.
The poem was written after,
the ***** poem.
They told me
sometimes my poem was about it.
It was too late to say
that the things they only have
is about ***** mind.
Indonesia, 3rd November 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
The man
who was sitting
alone under the rooftop
with burning cigarette
on the right hand,
feeling beauty,
looking at the night sky,
waiting to see the moonlight,
it was me.
Indonesia, 28th October 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Moe Oct 2021
i am left with
all these alien feelings
as you stand by the window
rain and wind slowly
make their way into you
the light from your cigarette
becomes colorless
in and out...every breath
the whisper of being here
gives the idea of being out of place
as you will without-end be a long goodbye
Salvador Kent Sep 2021
I was like that a while ago
Now I’m on a field reading a book
It’s a book of poems by Sylvia Plath
And the world looks terribly sad
On the horizon but here the grass is green.

Your face looks blue in this light
Words softly said… you’re wonderfully lyrical
When you’re sad. What a terrible thing to say
Suddenly exclaimed, a laugh, swift movement
And drag of a cigarette. You stare at me

And say: that’ll **** you you know
But you look so good when you do it
So does it matter really and I look at you
And laugh and feel alive for the first time
In years and years and whispering you say

Remember the time we had met
And you showed me the way you painted
So dreamlike, so expressionistic.
I stared into the canvas and was ******
Into your mind, you put me into a trance

As potent as the nicotine rush of a cigarette
Take a draw and I watch the smoke
Rise into the air and far away…
How much of this city’s air is tobacco
A quick query a weak laugh.

Golden hour and the green hills
Turn into sand dunes collapsing
In on themselves, things come and go
In that way, time passes in a blink of an eye
And suddenly there is a void.

Nothing remains unless you put it on a canvas.
My body tears itself apart every seven years
And one day I will stop with the blink of an eye
And I never would’ve been here. They’ll stay.
The sands of time may drag me away

The universe through my eyes
May implode and blink out
But regardless of what happens to me
They’ll stay. They’ll always stay.
Your eyes are drawn to a canvas

On which was painted dreams
A splash of red, figure shining gold
With grey above it being the smoke
From a half used cigarette.
Staring at it hours after it’s conception

You tell me it’s the best work
You’ve seen in a long time
And even though I can’t take compliments
I turn to you and say, name it for me.
You call it expression of sunlight.
The artist and the muse.
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