you were like cigarette smoke
i breathed you in
and blew you out
and in your wake
you left a feeling like no other
as you made it harder to breathe
as my lungs turned black
and my cells died

there’s beauty in pleasant destruction

The face
That says it all
But gives nothing,
That went to hell,
But didn’t come back,
Knows all languages
But speaks none,
Traveled all depths -
Not once in motion,
Sees right through you
But needs no eyes.

Puffing and puffing
The cigarette is delighted,
Youth burnt off
The face.

the way the sun hits
warming up my soul
ashes floating down pass my feet

your lips are like that
first breath in
fresh first fleeting
hit from that first cigarette
wishing you were my first
knowing you can’t be my last

the smell of new pavement
streets after a rain
feeling cool and warm
hot and cold
dizzy
raindrops on my skin
as welcome and unexpected
as your waning grin
as shocking
as the first time you kissed me

hands on my skin
my skin
my skin

Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******* history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.

Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.

There is a feeling of bubbles forming from my chest
that threatens to spill from my mouth,
but instead, flowers grow out of my throat
and reach upwards to the never-ending sky.

There is no way to know how I feel,
as I do not know myself what goes on
in my body, in my head --
I am but a passenger as my form works on autopilot
interacting, recharging, moving.

There is a dull pain, sometimes --
a hollow kind of loneliness that spreads like miasma,
bone-deep and cold to the touch.
On those days I'm anchored
to the bed, to the ground.
My mind knows there is nothing keeping me down,
yet my body refuses to believe it.

There is a screaming in my head
that I wasn't aware of
until I started smoking, until
the nicotine had suddenly
muted everything going on up there.

When you live in a void of white noise,
silence is what you seek.
But there is no fixed price,
no settled equivalent on what you stand to lose
for you to gain.

people who do something excessively:

shopping
smoking
drug-abusing
having ***
and many more actions

are on a quest.

sooner or later, some of these people discover something much bigger.

something that balances their
minds and hearts.