It’s like I’m on fire.
A human torch, or rather, a lighter.
Flame shoots from my lips and fingertips.
Burning those around me to a crisp.
At first the flame is only warm,
Until it starts licking around the torn.
Growing brighter and heavier,
The flame forces all other senses into a dull blur.
Don’t help me,
You’re only providing more fuel.
You’re no savior, you’re just a fool.
I am Flame. I am Smoke.
The syllables i speak will burn and make you choke.
They said he made light and angels
They said he made some magic garden
So why do some angels live in hell?
They have clay skin and healing hands...
And no-one thanks them
But they keep helping
They receive no reward
The pain feels like they stand in flames
And even in the smoke
He sits on his throne
No thank you, not pat on the back
Until the angels wither
And become black ash on the ground
I am blue
I smoke cigarettes when the city is quiet
While people fight themselves to fall asleep;
I cry to the Moon,
already admitting defeat with the chemical imbalances in my brain
The walls are breathing
My subconscious whispers to my actions
The secrets I hold but do not know
'When can I stop pretending'
My smile is wearing out and my greetings
I want to lay in bed
I am not,
Even to myself;
In a way I do not love, that I remind myself of the boys smoking ciggerettes outside of the stripmall. But also, in a way, I do.
Black mascara rivers flow down the highest peaks of glossy cheeks,
flowing in a downward spiral towards a pointed chin and protruding white collarbone.
As toxins billow out of her mouth, a narrow stream escapes her nose.
The cigarette smoke painting lungs in cancerous shades,
creating a soft smiled Mona Lisa on her throat.
Maybe my words are filled with smoke
But the regret is soaked
As my pride is soaked
These words occasionally croak
Sometimes my thinking is as hard as pine oak
Don't you ever feel like that again
I'm at fault
I'm going to be corgal with your emotions
Because I never should of hurt you in the first place
I'll bury all my frustrations and aggravation
Like it was the casualties of my own army
It's not easy to farm me
I have a rigid spirit
That can be ignorant at times
The past speaks the volume of my speakers for me.
It takes one to know one.
I didn’t really ever mind cigarettes
that was until I saw how much he smoked them
as if he didn’t know how those things kill
he just didn’t care
now, I hate them
I hate the way he makes chain smoking look
how can self-destruction look so beautiful?