and i’d like for it to sound poetic.
poetic and sad
“the car smelled of
cigarette smoke
as we swerved
on an empty highway
waiting for the sun
to catch up”
nah.
neither of us smokes
and you didn’t swerve
and the highway wasn’t empty
and it was only
eleven p.m.
we weren’t running from the sun
i’d like to say
we were chasing it
but baby when
have we ever done something
so brave?
nah.
it would even be poetic
to admit that we’re cowards
but we aren’t those either
we’re just ****** people
you know?
that’s all we are
that’s all anyone is
driving on a highway at eleven p.m.
with other people
who are just people
and ****
if that isn’t the most poetic
and sad ****
that i’ve heard all day.
ha.
turns out the highway
was empty
after all.

Are vices the answer?
No.

Would it solve your problems?
No.

Would it fix yourself?
No.

Would it make your situation better?
No.

So why do you still continue?

Because it makes me forget.

rite aid was out of maverick red 100s;
they only had shorts.
i had to buy a pack of newports
and the thought of shedding you
made me tremble as i slid my card.
yes, i switched from your menthols
back to my reds and yes, i kept your brand.

the other day i walked into my room
and the scent of cigarettes took me back,
back to the times of us sharing cigarette
after cigarette and i began to cry.
i called my therapist but she didn’t pick up.

the thought of quitting smoking crosses my mind
on at least a weekly basis, but i refuse to let you
ruin an agent of death i held in my hand
even before you came along.
i will not stop and i will continue to shed
the strongest tears for you.

Get over it! We will never catch her
singing along our tiny song. Nor borrowing
words from the silence to put them
and trow them on a glance over the room
toward our corner. Enough is enough,
this music is not one that she will play along,
the violin note is too long, the bowl
of fire not enough to get her belly warm.
Take a hint, get over it, and away, and off, and back.
Your words will not lift her off her feet,
yours is not the love that will make her levitate.

This is the last drink, says the drunk, I wont.
And it is the hundredth time he has lied to himself.
We know we are in trouble.
We look at ourselves taller than we are,
fairier, younger, stronger.
But we are, in fact, small, soaking wet, cold
and, for the love of God, this **** cigarette
wont stay lit.

She don't sees us, man. What are you talking about?
Those words does not have secret meaning.
Can't you see? Only because you go into the sea
doesn't meant that you are going to find your siren.

Get over it. We will never catch her!
Not the way she has our sorry little ***.
She has better plans for tonight. And for tomorrow.
For better or for worst. Get over it.

i smoke to
forget the lies
you told me

inhale
breathe hard

exhale
feel relaxed
im calm

i don’t think
about you
anymore

There’s something sadistic about cigarettes,
and the way they fondled your hands
like the way you used to ****** me,
hard and rough.
There’s something sadistic about the way they ****,
slow and steady,
like your words and how you purred them into my ears.
Their smell, coats and lingers for what can seem like years.
Just like your Old Spice body and strawberry scented hair,
because 4 years later the scent sticks to my nostrils
like a child clings to their mother.
There’s just something sadistic about the way a cigarette can look so **** good on you.
A fashion accessory, licensed to ****

Shivers creep on me in the post-******* ecstasy
as I light a cigarette and blue smoke crawls up my skin
Almost can feel you touching me
Giving love to my body

Inhaling the smoke brings back flashbacks of you
Suddenly we are in your room, drunk and young
I ask you to kiss me and you make me a slave
I taste you on my fingers and you taste like sin and whiskey
You pin me to the wall and we share what I thought was air
Rotten lungs and pretty eyes
My cigarettes now burn faster and you are lost in a fog
And although you destroyed me day by day
I never felt more alive
so I find myself reaching for your fire to light just one more cigarette.

A metaphor of life,
A metaphor of death,
A metaphor of love,
That you once left.

Why do I keep on smoking?
It's a bad habit, I presume
I once hated its smell;
You know, like how you hated it.

Even cried to God
For my father to stop,
Its killing him-
A terrible affliction.

Now, here I am
Smoking my last cigarette  
Now that you are gone;
Its killing me, but you killed me first.

When will I conquer this torment?
Pondering about you,
Cigarettes keep me warm
Every puff and cough.

I don't blame you;
I just condemn my self
For being too weak,
Naive, and trusting.

I guess
I'm not really addicted to you,
I'm just addicted to your company,
Your warmth.

Every flick of the cigarette ****,
Like shootings stars,
Wishing you'd come back
This emptiness, this hollow smoke

I'll promise to stop, maybe.
But not now, darling
I guess this vice would suffice,
For now.

It feels like yesterday.

How we stood in our window, smoking cigarettes

Listening to our song, with the sun on our faces

Laughing, kissing

Talking about our future with hope in our eyes

Looking at each other with butterflies in our stomachs

Now those plans are gone, just like you

Our song is no longer our song

The sun is replaced with clouds

Our laughter is replaced with silence and tears

The butterflies are gone

All there's left are grief and the question why?