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Scott Veinland Sep 2013
Fueled by the very thing that destroys me

Motivated by a sinister cause

Driven by a physical addiction birthed from nothing except pure temptation
and the psychological need to please an older brother

I can't change

Fear of rejection
Fear of crave
Fear of failure

*"Carcinogens will **** you, but you won't even notice."
Makiya Feb 2012
At first it was bare and ripe for the picking -
my chest was pulsating under your weight you
stripped my heart like an exotic dancer would:
all eyes and no hands.

After the initial grasp, the puff puff pass and the
smiles exchanged between our legsarmslimbs and the
time it took to be rid of the excess skin crowding us in,
we breathed in sweet, sweet fumes of spring and said
things kept in our mouths, light like ecstasy but
heavier than the average promise.

But the hours it took to argue the hunger away made our
heads ache and eventually our jaws could clench no longer,
our eyes could see no more of each other - just smoke and
******* clouding our way - it was lost,
whatever it was, it

was lost.
Katie Lo Jan 2014
All my life I've been lectured to stay away from the dangerous things in life.
Stray animals, unknown substances, drugs, alcohol, and the things in between.
But no one ever warned me about the dangers of falling in love.
The way it resembles all the listed dangers.
Oh how love can wound my heart as if it has clawed it bit by bit.
Oh how love is so world known yet so strange and confusing.
Oh how love takes me to the highest clouds with addiction being the aftermath.
Oh how love can make me fumble, release my secrets, and bring me a pounding ache the morning after.
But no one ever warned me about the dangers of falling in love.
Maybe because love in all reality is far worse than any spiked drink.
Worse than a pill that drives me insane.
Worse than being mauled by sharp teeth and claws.
Love is more of a carcinogen.
Flowing through my bloodstream, unwanted, hurtful.
A substance I can't remove, despite the many attempts.
Love is far too dangerous for one to speak of.
Love is something so dangerous we refuse to accept it as an actual threat.
Canaan Massie Oct 2012
So I'm a "fly" white guy,
with "Jet" black tendencies,
Try to be a nice guy,
But somehow end up the enemy.
I'll treat you like a princess,
But I'm a fort,
You can't get into me.

It makes no sense to me.

How did this knight in shining armor,
Get slain by the dragon?
So once upon a time,
I was a hero,
Now I'm a has-been.
Last in the castle for I belong with the Pagans,
Slaying distressed damsels,
Giving hell to the angels
With strangers wrapped in mangers,
Destined for greatness.
Trapped within this labyrinth of my cranium.

But when it comes to blame,
My pigmentation begins to change,
But this time it's not my shame.
'Cause you play the same game
That the dames did before you.
You're no different.
You're not worth a fortune.
Fortunately, you revealed your horns for me.
It's torturing how for me it ended horribly,
and you moved on to the same dude you ******* before me.

Love's supposed to be patient,
Love's supposed to be kind,
Instead it's a battlefield
Filled with landmines.

You say it's false,
that nice guys finish last?
Well clarify why I'm starin',
At taillights from my past.
They say when you have everything,
You give nothing back.
So I guess that explains
Why your feelings for me lack.
You're like "You're a white guy,
That tends to be black.
Well how in the hell
Can I get used to that?"
That's *******.
You're afraid of commitment.
That's why you had to end it,
Before it could begin with.
You're a cynical, sinister,
Hypocritical minister,
Angelic sinner sent to incriminate innocence.
Evil's equivalent,
Yet as sweet as carcinogens.
If heartbreak were a game,
Girl, you would be winnin' it.
If my soul were a food,
You would've finished it.
I had a confident conscience,
but girl you diminished it.
Listen kid,
I get you're immature and ****,
But don't go and slander my name
When you used to worship it.

Love's supposed to be patient,
Love's supposed to be kind,
Instead it's a battlefield
Filled with landmines.
This is actually a song I wrote. I will put the link up when I can.
Cunning Linguist May 2014
Mad Hatter's getting narcissistic without his tea
That's how I feel when I can't burn things
but you can't spell "arsonist" without A-R-T

Maybe I'm crazy but honestly it's therapy

Bolt the door to the party and listen to them scream
Oceans of commotion won't extinguish my latest masterpiece
So kick back, fire up a cig
Get that influx of carcinogens
Conducive to my sick mind

Twisted nihilist
Got a pack of matches
Now I'm dreaming in a pipe

Erupt into flames
Sit back and look at all the pretty lights
The way they dance in the wind
Such an alluring sight
It's really just poetry in motion
As I watch through kaleidoscopic eyes

I'll smoke to that.
You make me want to burn down a
kindergarten and roast mallows upon
the smoldering remains
Aric Wheeler Aug 2013
I had a girlfriend in kindergarten but she had a cleft pallet.

Today I drove the Lexus to my job that pays minimum wage.

I'm not ***** I'm just making macaroni and cheese.

Your fake words carry more carcinogens than my pack of cigarettes and I only smoke on the weekends.

Yesterday I was about to eat a cookie but I said to myself, "diabetes, diabetes, diabetes."

I have decided that I am sad.

Sometimes I want to look like a *****.
David Hall Jun 2014
I am dying
The thought occurs to me every now and then
Jolting my psyche like a bucket of cold water on a sleeping drunk

I just turned 32 this year
I can already feel the cold tendrils of deaths advance
Some days I can even smell its putrid breath on the back of my neck

I’m not dying of anything immediate
No nothing as glamorous as a drug overdose or a gunshot wound
My death more than likely won’t make national news

I am dying
It is a slow and pitiful death
Caused by a lethal mix of age, apathy and neglect

Every day I poison myself a little more
Complex carbohydrates and processed sugars in every meal
Caffeine carcinogens and aspartame to wash the poison down

I can feel my muscle waste away
As I sit 10 hours a day answering the same inane questions
Over and over again to earn the right to what’s left of my meager existence

I am dying
This must be the case because I am certainly not living
At best I am merely surviving, simply continuing to exist

Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 20 years
Even if I quit my job and start an organic vegan diet
Even if I exercise, meditate and confess my sins

I am dying
Abby Jan 2014
I know everything about
tobacco.
Cancer stats,
asthma stats,
usage rates among teens
tweens
and young adults.
Give me five minutes
and you can have a list of the taxes on tobacco
arranged by state
(alphabetical or by rank?)
and a dozen studies that all say
"smoke up, Johnny, it's good for you!"

Data is my nicotine and I am hooked.

We're surrounded by
Smoke, Lies, and the Nanny State
and no one gives a ****.
Follow the rules
and hide your smoke,
your *****,
and keep away
from the kids.
Carcinogens in hot dogs
are all well and good
because there's
"nutritional value"
but you can't eat a cigarette.

Eat your lies and **** your e-cigarette like a lollipop because that's the cool thing these days.
Nico Reznick May 2018
(A follow-up to "Whimper", which was written in response to "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg)

I have seen the best insanity of my generation destroyed by the worst minds.
I have seen humans turn into robots and the robots turn to fascism
because of What The Internet Told Them.
I have seen the weaponisation of our most rancid fears and watched
in horrified fascination as our inner demons got their own agents.
I have seen and felt the horizon constrict so tight, it’s getting
hard to swallow.

You have to understand, this isn’t what I wanted.
You have to realise, this isn’t what I meant.

This isn’t crazy.
This isn’t pure, natural, spontaneous crazy.
This is synthetic madness, manufactured madness,
genetically modified, mass-produced, mass-marketed madness:
As Seen On Television; approved by test audiences;
none of the calories, all of the carcinogens.
This goes beyond the deplorable allure of a free red hat.
This goes beyond dinosaur-dodo-dumb nostalgia for a blue passport
and a golden age that never was.
This is why you hire Cambridge Analytica.
This is the Project For The New American Sentence:
The message is, “It’s chaos out there, people; do what the hell you want.”
And the echo chamber,
and the echo chamber,
and the echo chamber,
and even the rage…
even the rage isn’t real.

Mercenaries, not maniacs.
No more lunatic songs.
That howling you hear is only feedback:
an endlessly shrieking loop of absolutely nothing, broadcast on
every channel, into every dream, until the fillings in our teeth buzz
and our institutions tear themselves apart, as
component materials hit resonant frequency.

This is how the world ends: Not with a whimper, but with
static.

We got the message wrong, giving credence to people
whose hatred is their only art.  They taught us
to avoid such human folly as Ruinous Empathy, to
distrust painful, decaying love, when these were the
things that might have saved us.
There’s a poet I know, who served in ‘Nam, who thinks
he might have even forgiven Nixon.  
Field Commander Cohen has checked out of the Chelsea Hotel,
deciding we wanted it too dark for him.
Too many of our heroes have turned out to be monsters.  We're haunted by
historic *** crimes, Cold War ghosts and the knowledge that we
could have done things differently.

The message was supposed to be, “It’s chaos, be kind.”

There's no such thing as a stable genius, but we've got
fake news and alternative facts; we're discovering the side-effects
of living post-consequence.  We're hypernormalised.  We're
past shock; our incredulity stretched beyond its
elastic limit; we've broken satire and nothing is really funny any more.

Welcome to the Disinformation Age.  These are our Interesting Times:
Glee Club and Gun Rehearsal; bloodied blue uniforms;
tears for the victims of the Bowling Green Massacre;
an early by-election for Batley and Spen;
very fine people on both sides; Thoughts & Prayers, our
only surplus, the ultimate fiat currency;
poverty **** and the return of social ****** (71 dead at Grenfell, NHS black alerts, rickets making a comeback, lead in the water); Drink the Kool-aid; humans like Kool-aid - **** stars on polygraphs; Netflix and Kompromat; the portrait
in Kissinger’s attic; Ayn Rand for Beginners; Corporate cosmology
and casino capitalism; government by gaslight; constructive ambiguity
to preserve a kakistocracy; bring me
the head of Roger Stone!  #EndOfEmpire;
Windrush and Stupid Watergate…

I said we needed our madmen back, but not like
this.  Not
these posers, these gangsters, these Quislings…  
These are merely bad actors, playing to the crazy dollar,
but do not doubt their sanity,
which is icy and cynical and monstrous.  But,
in the cold fusion reactor of that sanity, they are unknowingly
forging a new generation of madmen, whose madness
will be righteous and real and burn with
a pure, perfect heat that cleanses and cauterises.  They
will know the difference between human
and humanoid.  They will be less afraid than us, less quick to
hate strangeness. They will use their craziness to
create, not destroy.  They have
already begun.

I know this because
I have witnessed six minutes and twenty seconds of silence that blazed hotter, howled louder than all your Fire and Fury.  I have seen
riot cops in Baton Rouge turn whiter and recoil in fear from serene, dignified, unarmed surrender. I
have heard the young sweetly whisper to the old,
‘Fine, but you’re wrong, and we’re right, and we will outlive you.’
You can’t hide that behind a wall.
You can’t say that life doesn’t matter.
You can’t filibuster the future.
Everything was forever, until it was no more.

Our madmen are gone, and they’re not coming back.  
But there will be others.
The best minds of their generation will not be destroyed by your sanity.
Follow-on to "Whimper", posted here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1513932/whimper/
Canaan Massie Nov 2012
Once is not enough,
For me to feel this buzz.
For I see the smoke upon your lips,
And I can only but feel envious.

Carcinogens? I fear none,
If I obtain my dearest's love.
For this reward is what I get,
The Consequences of a Cigarette.

One day, sir, This will have you die,
To that, my love, this is my reply,
Smoke again is what I'll do.
For ironically, I'd die for you.
voodoo Sep 2015
I think of you on days the odor of water makes me dry-heave.

Our photographs still throw me, offguard, into flashbulb memories. Every detail etched into my brain with a hot scalpel.

This isn’t an apology, this is a confession. I am not guilty in my eyes.

That was my hollow lava, this is what it crystallized into. Look at it, laugh at it, break it, keep it. My words were only meant to be beautiful in someone else’s eyes. In your eyes.

Drown my breath in a tub of sand, tell me everything that isn’t alright.

You can weave our veins into a dystopian novel, stamp it with 'fiction' and we can pretend it never happened.

The ordinary incinerated in your palms and I’m reeling from this hamartia.

Paint your carcinogens on my skin, carve them into my bones, punch them onto my eyes. Hold these hands one more time and feed me a blatant lie.

Feed me anything that’ll help me swallow these choked up cries.

I’ve wondered how the others were, how you were.

Was it art when you wrapped blindfolds around their necks?

What was it to them? How were they dying?

How am I dying?

Because I wake up in the odd hours, my chest feeling like it’s soaked in salt water,

and you’re standing at the edge of my bed,

with a mug of poison,

smiling,

telling me it’s okay,

it’s just a bad dream,

here, I made some coffee.


And I believe you.
for K
Sleuthed Nov 2012
sickly sweet his muttered breath
stinking of rain and ***
nicotine that stuck to his sweat
                                      and monsters between his lips
                   they start to slip--

                                      casualties of carcinogens
                   sand paper made of tired skin
peeled away
sliced off
cut in
                   slipped away
                                                         --addictions forgotten how to stay
                                      their sweet poison the only company
                   and bittersweet, missed opportunities
and how you've slipped away from me.

                                      surprise, surprise.
Harsh Jun 2015
Remember, dear;
There will always be who I am tonight.

Provided that my demons keep their peace within the cage of my ribs,
and our pools of patience endure their droughts and despair,
I’ll hold you when our bones are brittle and our hair is silver.

And when those days come, and for the thousands of days in between, there will always exist a man inside me who was (at least once) everything and anything you’d wanted him to be.

You will always be the lovely lady of my life, and no matter how fate decides to shape our time together, I will always be ready to hold you in my arms, however weak they may be. I will always listen to whatever may harrow your soul, however hard of hearing I might be at that point. And even when I am blinded by cataracts and carcinogens, I'll always appreciate how you smile with your eyes and how your nose crinkles a little when you laugh, I'll always be able to tell you how lovely you look.

We may be torn apart or we may grow together but regardless of our proximity, I will always be who you once fell in love with, I will always be everything you once needed. And as I have been for you, I will be once again.
Jack Thompson Mar 2015
It used to be a need like addiction.
Broken creeping open at the seams.
One person one relentless affliction.

You've been my remedy.
Ointment to my pains.
Soothing the carcinogens in my veins.

Its taken time countless characters.
You've weeded out the unwanted.
Fear and weakness thwarted.

A love incomparably intense.
My perspective now shifted.
Like a viscous veil you lifted.

Building on what's left of me.
You are no longer my necessity
© All Rights Reserved Jack Thompson 2015
Daniel Magner Nov 2012
I've got to be real with you
because I've never
been one to be fake
Telling the truth is messy
but it's a risk I'm willing
to take.
I've done my fair share of
forceful forgetting, taking
smoke and pills straight
to my face.
If you see this mom, I hope
I'll still be your son
and not a disgrace
not just another mistake
Like the marriage you lost
to alcohol, a pack of lies
costing four dollars and
sixty-nine cents, and a foot
too slow on the brakes

I can't tell you I've always
been good, acting like
I knew I should, no
I've lied a million times
I've cut a million lines
the carcinogens burning my eyes
till I go blind
I used to want help but
now I scream to the world
"I'm fine!" and ya know what
I just might be lying
it wouldn't be the first time.

But a brain in altered states
doesn't know it's in a cage
it feels like ink flying
ripping away from the page
or the main act on the
main stage.
So don't look on me with hate
or pity, or disgust
I'm doing the best I can
I'll move and change my name
if I must, but I swear one
day, I'll be okay
in that you can trust
and if you see me now, Ed
just know that even though
you are dead, all the things
I've done to erase my past
you're still sitting inside
my head, I still dream you
up while laying in my bed
I hope out of everyone
you understand everything
I've said. because I'd hate
to let
you
down
First Draft, © Daniel Magner 2012
Nurse Joy Feb 2013
Pollution.
In this air I breathe, there is no dilution, from the carcinogens you emit.
The smog steadily spews from your sin blackened lips.
Manufacturing twisted lies in your factory mind.
No one left but the plagued.
There are no true answers left to find.
Not for you.
Not for any of those ****** with a third eye blind.
Timothy Brown Apr 2013
I haven't slept.

What am I waiting for?

Death in my lungs

Carcinogens.

No it's not that,

I'm waiting till my need overcomes my fear

of sleeping.

Till my thoughts of her are engulfed

by thoughts of you.

Till my blood overruns

and spills into the street.

When my wrist heals

thanks to protein

extracted  from meat.

I need sleep,

but I'm afraid of dying.

Not the flying but the landing.

because it's  really crashing.

Waking

up like nothing happened.

But it did.

I am exhausted

Tell me to go to sleep

So I may hold you

while I shake and weep.

I am dying in here

decaying

in my

thoughts.

I

need to forgive

myself
I can't take these long nights for much longer
© April 30th, 2013 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved
Alan Black Mar 2015
The cancer has spread too far,
the mass is too massive to be excised.
The chemo bag is secretly filled with carcinogens.
The pills they charge us a fortune for
are only placebos.
The last doctor died in 1963,
and the man in the white scrubs,
who rubs your hand, and says it will all be alright
is a card carrying servant
of the very cancer he professes to fight.
Nighty-Night little ones,
its time to turn out the light.
Martin Narrod Aug 2015
[on the verge of a cry]

Darling penguin,

you've brought me here yet again. whether we writers are on the page of paper, Moleskin, notebook, website, or smartphone, here again you have brought me. Having just lit another cigarette, drinks and drugs and smoke and music are in this place you've brought me with these ***** fingers pounding away into a bluetooth keyboard as the long lonely nights I've taken to find you melted away the keys of my computer ash and burnt plastic have taken to so many letters: H, command, I, R, and D too. I have a fixe and it won't be cured alone. I've been on so many lines and numbers, and I keep trying, and I'll tell you some people might consider these women absolutely marvelous, but to me, they too often prove to be nothing more than the hollow engravings of tales told too often, and where am I with you?

I'm cracking my knuckles again, and it's so ******* hot in here. Morphs, subs, percs, and oxys, pain and agonizing pain. And I'm growing a beard and mustache, very soft hair for you to nestle into when we move into the house in Evanston. I've been touching my lips with these ash stained fingertips drafting your lips upon mine, while the piceous nexus of this cold untouched skin shifts restlessly in the drear and yellow light of another sad and melancholy hour away from my arms around you, abreast and grinning with excitement, contentment, contagious glee. i bring my clean soft fingerds through the strands of aurulent glistening gold hair of yours and press my mouth into the crown of your head, the temples of your face, and your face presses into mine, and it's 1:41am and these eyes wander endlessly around this room ******* down carcinogens and poison, holes in these jeans, black denim tapered cut, your black leather studded cuff around my right wrist and the peace beads a wandering monk granted to me with a gold card and a bow while amassing friends in the herds of people gathered in line to go into Lollapalooza. I am brimming over with excitement, even for the taste of dog feces in the cigarettes(I will brush of course), you are my event horizon, my vessel of light beams, lasers, and the most immense love for which of course more than a dozen different writings attempt to share with others and imbue the world to even come close to the extraordinary magnanimous love and adoration unto the both of us, but between ourselves especially.

Earlier this evening I was speaking to Elizabeth on the propensity of how valuable having a soulmate really is, not to say the words but to know the person, to know you in the full grace and integrity of what that means. I was saying how with you, there is no one or many or anything about you that disturbs me or that I could find gross or that could keep me from wanting to be close to you. That no matter how sick you could get or **** it- what I was saying is that I love you so much I want you to spit in my mouth, smear every part of your body against every inch of my body. I want to smell, taste, touch, and see all of you that there is, to sit again and stand again and stand up and sit down just ******* staring forever in the most beautiful enchanting, ethereal, and beloved face I have ever seen. And if I must I would carry you over molten lava, burning steel, broken glass, but instead I think we ought to go to Half Moon Bay, and while the chill is in the air, and it's just you and me my love, we can dance in the surf and kick the water at each other. Because the continental plates will always be moving, the water will move to grow and surge and swell and turn to clouds and back to raindrops and precipitate life and govern this planet, but I will always be governed by our amatory interconnectedness and how perfervidly passionate and over the top I am and always will be about you. I will give the world to you, so long as I can love you for as long as I live.
Mike Hauser Apr 2013
I'm coughing out in rhythm
As I draw in more lushest smoke
Ain't never done me any good
But the Marlboro Mans got my vote

Two packs a day at minimum
I see no use in quitting
Though the way I wheeze in the morning time
There ain't much use in living

The doctors give their warning
My lungs are tarred and blackened
The only thing I see I'm missing
Is the free breathing that I'm lacking

So leave me be to my greatest need
We all know what that is
Carcinogens and nicotine
Are two of my favorite hits

They say smoking wont send you to hell
It just makes you smell like you've been there
And to a smoker that's just as well
In hell you'll never need a lighter

So the doctor's can warn me all they want
If they feel they must
But I ain't leaving outta here
Until that very last lushest puff...
I'm not a smoker myself...
This is just something I thought all you smokers would enjoy...
So everyone light up, inhale, draw deep, exhale, Ahhhhhhh......
Charles Barnett Jul 2012
I'm smoking cigarettes
to the filiters, inhaling
carcinogens and rat poison
and urea like oxygen,
while you're dancing,
dancing around words
and the bedroom floor.
Andrew Switzer Apr 2014
The mystic Mys-Match of Mew Manor mounts the moon at midnight. He flies freely, forgetting the faltering fallacies that fold this failing facade of figments of the imagination and inglorious nations into a crooked caricature of creeps, clowns, and carcinogens to our culture. From crack and **** to casual deaths, the population prays for post-******* match days.

What's the reason of rhyme if you don't have a reason to see a new season of sweethearts and treason? The mystic Mys-Match of the planet Piblatch has snatched nary a glance of this reprehensible romance. He hums happily, hovering over the homes of the hurt and the helpless, unaware of the ugly and untrue souls of the suffering below.

Due in part, perhaps, to the planet Piblatch, whose population prowls playfully amongst the pipperplitz plants and the tinktertip trees. A civilization unaware of Gods and demons, *****'s and dip *****.

At sunset, the Piblatchians partake of rackaday root and crushed up clibber clatch cuttings. They see the psychedelic sky ways that sing of sweet things and spacey swings.

As mankind manipulates, murders, and maims itself, the world which waivers with weakened wings is consumed by the carnivores that **** off the common crowd and leave only the corrupt and cantankerous crooks that fall to the depths of despair when the bomb goes off, blotting out humanity's light forever.

But the mystic Mys-Match and his planet Piblatch live on, past the end of time itself. The peaceful people continue to enjoy their lives and never know of the negative notions that drove the dimwitted denizens of Earth into a violent and gruesome grave.

Mankind could have learned something from the Piblatchians, if only they had opened their eyes and seen the light.
JL Apr 2015
Watch me look at this
I made theses calculations on the fly
I am 22 just for you
XO XO
It tastes so sweetly of vanity
I just can't get enough of your
Carcinogens
I'll inhale the fumes
Succulent tonic
Bonding me
To your kitchen table
To your eyes
Hey I could be your paper bag  
Snap off that
******* slight smile
So I can sleep a while
So I can sleep a while
Take that skirt off
Bite your nails some mor
Shut the door
Shut the doo
I'm on the outside
Where I belong
I love it here
I love um
Boy
Pseudonymous S Jun 2021
A man sits in a church, his cigarette aflame
And his eyes glow with the light of sin and fire.

He inhales the burning stench of pride and Carcinogens,
Fingers reaching for yet another from his
Pack of plenty.

“Where is this god?”

He asks the voiceless air and the staring
Cardboard cutout of Jesus Christ.

“Where is your shame?”

Replies the omniscient and aching voice of
Our lord and savior.

The man in the church takes another drag of his
Cigarette.
Anon C Nov 2012
Will I really let this be the death of me
A weakness so pitiful
Cigarette smoke and carcinogens
Why do I place value on such an ugly foe
Blackened lungs
Hacking cough
Body turning to ash
Looking back in 10,20,30 years
Was it worth it?
So then why am I too weak to stop
I despise them
Yet I love them
Finding comfort
When death whispers in my ear
A disease upon the mind
I will keep trying
One day I pray that I succeed
To toss this ugly demon in the ditch
Ethan Johnston Oct 2015
I think of last cigarettes

They last in anticipation of what?
Death? Better health?
To quit smoking or quit living
I have tried and failed at  both
Won't you trust me to inhale your carcinogens when I return? Will my return revitalize my feelings for you?
Or will what has become a smoothed-over ceremony in my lungs turn to a harsh fit of coughing that tears us apart?
Either way, sooner, later, an end will come.
But that makes it all the more intimate.
Maybe that's the idea of last cigarettes.
to stare the cancer of doubt in the eyes
and bathe in sparks of vitality-
to take part in a comforting regiment
and forget for a few breaths that the end is eminent
You put the faces in the suitcases and the words they spoke in the drawer and that's what baggage, tallboys and memories are for.
Hidden away until a far distant day and when you remember them fine or they'll stay gathering dust as some things we know must until another far distance in time.

What remains are the losses and gains and the framework of what's left behind.
We built to the stars, trolleybusses and cars,
factories pumping out poisons, toxins, dioxins, carcinogens and these are the menopause makers, the baby takers, the childless employees wearing gas masks in foyers for a dime and a dollar a day.

And memories to hide away, faces to face one day and words that they uttered all shut in the case or the drawer and more to come.

When they've erased the Sun they will come for you,
try to blot this from your mind,
but you're asbestos lined
you're okay,
put your memories away and
keep them safe.
Auroleus Dec 2013
A stiff breeze coincides with a passing jet
As I sit on my stoop watching dead leaves
Dance around the manhole in the street.

It's 15 degrees outside,
Yet I persist with this disgustingly pleasurable vice
That's sure to **** me... eventually.
Fingertips numb as carcinogens fill my lungs
To shake hands and broker death deals with my alveoli.

I ponder...

The previous chapter in my life has come to a close.
Awareness of the changes setting in
Allows for a free hand to grasp the wheel,
If only with few fingers...
It's a start.

— The End —