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fray narte Oct 4
she was just another poet
who wrote
late night proses
about smoking
ten cigarettes
in one sitting,
and climbing closed gates
at 1 am
and other bad ideas —
bad ideas
like him.
lance Sep 29
From the very first drag,
of newly lit sorrow,
it seemed to heal,
all my wounds.

It burned like heart break,
and died like the moon,
when the sun wakes up,
and lights my whole room.

I miss the night—
A free of charge silent treatment,
I really didn’t mind.
Because I was alone very frequent.

Nineteen-some later,
my lungs wore a frown,
I did this to cope,
when i felt nothing but down.

Say what you want,
but no one tries to help,
I’m held to the fire,
chop liver until death.

Please let this smoke,
be your very last.
Aseel Sep 26
I smoke
I burn my soul wrapped in a paper
So you could see that I’m burning

No one believes you’re on fire
Unless he sees the smoke
lance Sep 25
since when did holding a death sentence
in between my fingers,
become such an amazing getaway?

a sense of relief,
pulls away the weight of the world off of my chest,
leaving my lungs charcoal black,
while gazing into the stars,
head scattered with emotion,
numbing the constant sorrow.

“a cigarette won’t **** you”

i said.

but my weary heart and mourning lungs tell me otherwise,
i smoke to get away from reality,
paying attention to only the:



“save this broken boy”

i said.

talking to the moonlit sky,
well aware not the stars,
nor my hope will save me tonight.

i smoke my lonely cigarette,
burning it down to the filter,
just to be used and thrown away.

“i have it good”

i said.
I can still feel you between my fingers--
an empty ghost of pleasure,
a cigarette to the skin.
the longer I hold you,
temptation heats from within.

your kisses ache my teeth--
I'm so hungry,
but it hurts.
it hurts to let you in.

and when you leave me,
choking for your breath,
I start to fear heaven
and yearn for hell instead--
for all life's pleasures
seem to burn between my hands.

an empty ghost of pleasure,
embers burning in the sand.
cigarettes man... you are my sunday cigarette
NA Sep 17
I shouldn't be up this late
I have work in the morning
I hate my boss
I hate my job
I'd quit if I didn't need the money
But I can't stop the drinking
And I can't shake the feeling
Of you on my lips
I'm cursed forever
With the taste of your kiss
And your hands on my hips

I need someoone to help
Did I tell you I'm drinking
I hate this taste
I say hate too much
Is that why you left me lonely
But I can't stop the drinking
And I can't shake the feeling
Of being alone
I'll guess I'll get use to this
Or at least try
Everything feels so strange
And I know I am up too late
I'm smoking the buds of your cigarettes
Just to be where your lips have been
I'm only doing this all because I think that I need it
It's as close as I can get to you

Yeah as close as I can get
(As close as I'll ever be)
As close I can get to you

I'm smoking the buds of your cigarettes
The ones you left in the ash tray
During our last conversation
I'm wearing your t shirts
I'm listening to your favorite mix tape
I'm only doing this all because I think that I need it
It's as close as I can get to you
Written as a song
Your lips and cigarette both tastes and acts alike. Hence i never missed kissing you when you left me.
Nigdaw Aug 26
as though still on the breast
mother nicotine brings her comfort
warm feelings of belonging,
coming home

just five minutes to **** myself
grabbing a moment from life
to lose it from the other end

not the courage for suicide
dying by degrees

dancing with the darkness
I kid myself I live
on the edge
pushing the envelope

but I'm a sad sack
with yellow fingers
looking for an answer
as flimsy as the smoke
that pollutes my lungs

love is a fickle thing.
girl gonzo Aug 26
watching the same collage video on a loop of
leaves drying up
snow melting under the surface of a sweating floor
you leap up to grab me but there's only a cloud of moonlight coming through your window
you feel the arresting tackle of all the butterflies leaping out of your chest with rapid eye movement like the eyelash kisses you would give the mirror
the fluttering turning their wings into  heavy blades that leave a pinkish glow on your chest

my name was worn out that spring and you never learned to turn the light on at night
J J Aug 22
I contemplate
the inevitability of
                          Over the course of a
As Otis Redding plays.
                         I should really stop smoking...
My last cigarette and my last poem for a little while.
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