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Dear Nicotine

Why do I feel like I need you

Like the air that I breathe.

You feel as good as oxygen

Yet

You are slowly killing me
I hate that I love you
He chokes
paper and
inhibits law  
there in
habitual way
as he
lumped this
load on
my community
with popular
dogma still
ministry of
the house
though the
township nigh
but a
hospital standard
A word on healthcare
I've been smoke free two months today.
I haven't smoked and I hope that's how things will stay.
Please don't start smoking, it wasn't a good thing for me to do.
Please say no to nicotine because that is what is best for you.
For one month, I've been smoke free.
31 days ago, I put smoking behind me.
God and the nicotine patches have helped me to quit and I'm grateful.
And without those patches, the nicotine withdrawal would've made me become hateful.
But I'm no longer using the patches and I think I have the problem licked.
I've been smoke free for a month and I think that I'm no longer an addict.
Let me tell other smokers something that's true.
I was able to kick the habit and so can you.
Something about the smell on my
fingers, lingering
But for whatever reason
when I chew tobacco
I feel like the cowboy
I grew up wanting to be
My wound is fresh
My words weak
But light my pipe
And words begin to steep

It’s a slow burn
Betwicks the tobacco and me
the nightshade can’t last
My thoughts they burn

The smoke is a manafestation
It’s shows how things burn inside
So much for the fascination
Of a future I prized as mine...
If only forgetting you are like smoking
My dreams and memories are the tobacco burning
Watch each of the tobacco leafs turning into ashes
Then put the ashes on my ashtray
Throw them away so I could see them goes away

If only to end my love for you by smoking
Using the poisonous carbon monoxide to weaken my heart’s desire to keep you with me,
**** the butterflies inside my belly
And the cancer cells will eat the remaining feelings inside me

Sometimes I wished smoking helps
But reality, every inhaler I took, my life slowly ends
Every cigarettes I burnt doesn’t lead me one step further
Most likely I slowly make myself to be dead in one spot
I smoked too much I guess
Mark Wanless Feb 1
volumes of fresh tobacco
with no rolling papers -
potato pipe
Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath

Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know

Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true

The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send

It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared

The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend

Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar

The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type

Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch

The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while

He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead

A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do

The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there

So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl
Kristaps Sep 2018
Rough on the breath, grazing the neck
the USSR prunes count her days, she
counts her copper,
to tally her time,
now seems pointless.

One for the beak, one for Eve,
mother's tears
couldn't get past two, but
her old skin hanger arms could,
one for apple juice
one for her fur.

Afterward, everything gave
she couldn't retell the old saying
about the fruit and the trees,
but there was no need

So may the hags hag and
the prunes prune
for to rot so far
is to get used to a graze
and then to mimick
the gardener;
to count
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