Day One filled with grace
An urge to fulfill
The purpose of birth-
Losing that which
Keeps the path hidden

Resolutions are waged
To add to or to deduct from-
And the bundle carried
Is lighter, for the path
Taken requires less

fire within burning
Shedding light to the path-
Path becomes less foggy
As the fire continues to burn
Welcome Brand New 2016

Fingers flick the cold metal,
the butane smell fills the air.
I let the flame settle,
the heavy smoke hits my snare.
I hit the distortion pedal,
gone- the problems I bear.

my thumb
pushing down
on a lighter
is more calming
than a
small hand
holding said thumb
watching
anything burn
is more
entertaining
to me
than the
dancing flames

Bits of me unlock and let go
Floating past what remains of my eyes
I am made of so many colourful peices
I exhale the last of my lungs
A pink cloud shimmers in front of my face
Lighter and lighter as my body departs
Floating upwards where the air is thin
Raindrops falling between the flecks of me
My being stretched just as thin as the air I travel through

replacing your alcoholic drink
lighter fluid should do the -trick-
i want you to feel the sting
your words are the lighter
your tongue is the -wick-

Farouche outline,
melting into the stool.
Slippery palms, flavoured beef and onion,
now it's 5 o'clock.

Hands turn.

Willing a pint to be half full, not half empty.
Slumped since 1978, timeless as the wallpaper.

Hands turn.

Mustard teeth to compliment his tongue.
Paralysed from his lifting elbow down.

Hands turn.

Jutting cigarette from blubber lips, burnt out.
Spitting in the ******, ritual, it's good luck.

Hands turn.

Lucky he's got time then,
Read behind bloodshot eyes.  
Ice in the cider, it'll last longer than him.

Hands turn.

An echo, I think it's a bell.  
You're out, he knows.

Hands turn.

Cold bites at the door, he huddles out.
A lighter lost, a bottle-top gained.
The wind taunts the black velvet sheet of white pin ******.

Hands stop.

JWS

I remember the exact way
his hands looked as
they covered up my attempts
at sparking a flame,
blocking the fan's
breeze.
They were cupped softly around
the faint streaks of
orange yellow and red,
and his honeyed skin glowed
so deliciously against the
flickering light as it enveloped the
cigar.
I felt his fingers brush mine,
and I choked on my own breath as
the charge washed over
me.
The flame was fully lit,
and his brown eyes reflected with
fire,
burning through me, igniting
me from the inside
out.
The warmth of his laugh
scorching my eardrums,
I listened to his
stories and ideas as
my body began boiling in
his rhetoric.
His presence struck me like
a match,
his aura drew me in like
a moth to a flame,
and when he helped me light
that cigar,
I think he set me on fire,
too.

i don't believe in luck
(or god, or love, or you.)
i believe only what i feel,
and every day that's something new.
they refuse to use my lighter
because it's white (so very white)
all i have to say is,
does it matter -- the source of light?

I had a lighter given to me,
A face engraved on its metal case.
And its inner heat
And flame hidden
Terrify me.

It whispers to me,
To that blistered skin in my lungs
Where I breathed too deeply of the flame
And the burning hearts about me.
I crack it open.

Its metal is bright
And the wick stands tall
Upright and seeking my breath.
I hold it fast and hard
And it whispers.

'Where is she now?'

I close it up
And hide it away
Because sometimes
Hidden flames
Should be just that.