she was as the smell of smoke,
clinging to my fingertips.
a linger of reckless abandon.
she was always the first ****,
burning my throat as i inhale.
fingertips, trailing constellations,
sweat glistening as the smoke coils.

i need fresh air.
but my lungs are black,
and i cannot breathe unaided.

She sets down
her very large glass of Malbec
sighs and lights
a poorly rolled
******-like cigarette
the look on her face
bothers me deeply
I open my mouth
with good intentions
and probably should have
said something like
"Are you ok?"
but what came out
went something like
You are nothing to me
just an **** potato
there's almost nothing
that you could provoke
within anyone
except for the cats
Yeah,
I'd bet you could start
the feline revolution
with your poisoned toenails
and mashed carrots
not even seventeen vats of ****
could make you more slippery
No,
I don't want your wet cake
just bees,
endless mayonnaise
and cherry flavoured toxic yoghurt

Pieces of paranoia
Placed properly,
in parts of my brain

We're all the same

Noises ,are noted as loud
Not , nothing or quiet ;
Like a race car
Driving on a highway

You can't act calm
Nor contently
Mostly on crack ,
You're crazy

It's an escape from events
And/or our ethnicity
To be or not to be just
Another soul

It's bonkers our minds ,
Blasts , such wild
Imagination beyond our
World

A plant so potent
Rich in poison
It breaks away
The pain

Masks the broken
And enhances the
Spoken

We're all the same.

do you ever get depressed
not knowing what’s coming next
not able to undo the past
despite your efforts the good won’t last

smoking every day making my life hazy
cuffed in place with these chains of daisies

folding playing cards when i didn’t used to
it’s the little things that make me miss you

Quitting Is no easy job.
Packs of 20 get thrown away,
At least 5 times before the words
‘I’m done’
Can be released for your mouth to say.

So what’s your burden?
A traumatic incident formed from a full grown man, a child and some ****?
A mountain of reading, endless literature to form your statements into ones that are good?
Or is it an occupation?
One that you’re punishing yourself with, as a realisation from all of your revelations?

Burning sticks only point to one truth,
That you need more in your life to do.
Rather than let burning sticks do what they do best,
Fill your lungs with so much mud,
Air no longer passes through your chest.

But maybe it isn’t a burden.
Maybe it’s simply a yearning,
For you to finally feel something,
To give yourself an experience that reminds you of loving,
Or hating.

The game ends anyways so it’s alright.
Burning sticks may go out but you can always relight.
You may burn your lungs until you delight,
But just know that at the end of the day,
This is your own fight.

A shared cigarette
like a pirouette
spinning through my mind
a kiss, a touching of hands,
Rosy cheeks and a quick
stammering of words.
Brought with spark
and gone too soon
Like a shared cigarette

Take a walk through my head
Listen to my thoughts
Spend a day in my shoes
You'd start drinking
Smoking
*******
Anything to make it stop

in your stomach, in your lungs—
what is it you’re running from?

to my core, all for the fun,
but in the end i’ll run towards your gun.