This is the day you left me.
I smoked: once
twice
three times, maybe -

But the cigarettes
won't stop me
wondering
where you are.

Something about the smell on my
fingers, lingering
But for whatever reason
when I chew tobacco
I feel like the cowboy
I grew up wanting to be

Everything is grey.
My mood,
my feelings,
my world.
A greyzone,
so I make my lungs pitch black
hoping for
another colour

i was a child my father told me that every cigarette you smoked took five minutes off your life. i still remember my first — a lit belmont shoved between my parted lips mid-protest with a snide remark about how strange it was that i was thirteen and had never smoked — “five minutes,” i thought. i could sacrifice five minutes. within a year, five turned to ten and ten turned to thousands and, with every inhale, i thought, “five more minutes.” no longer a sacrifice, but a comfort; an inevitability. four years later, waking up in an unfamiliar bed in an east side motel, my throat raw, my body slick with cold sweat, tongue still bitter from cognac i couldn’t remember drinking, i’d lie awake and wonder how many more minutes had been taken from me, and whether i’d given them willingly. the following years pass in a haze, bestowing more leaden weights upon the shame that leaves me broken on the bathroom floor, knees bruised and bloodied. my lungs are black and my chest feels empty and i wonder if any of it ever mattered, and what, or who, it was that took the most from me. deep down, i know i gave it all willingly.

Has
God been here
Before

With Jack
Rocks
Impassable walls

Stains of yellow
Petals
Falling down

Washing down
Acidic joints
Painting
Prettier beginnings

Along
False roads
Gold with
Total fog

what do i love...?

everytime someone asks me that,
i think of my family. my parents, brother and sister,
niece and nephews, but...

that would be a lie. would i die for them? yes. but only because they are family, there are a few persons among them whom i cannot stand.
if some of them were not my kin, i wouldnt even consider putting my hand into a fire for them.

its hard to admit but its the truth.

the real things that you love are,
things which shouldnt mean anything to you. but they still do.
for example;
friends.

That Whiskey bottle
Would drown me
If I let it

That Cigarette
Would smoke me
If I let it

Your Love
Would destroy me
If I let it

But I won't let it

I mean too much to me
To let that happen anymore