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lina S Jul 2014
Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

****** up emotions they turn me to the notion of

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

Really can't think my mama thinks I stink

but I still smoke these

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

I love these

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes

Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes
Ellis Reyes Nov 2011
Citrus trees, tomatoes, and fertile soil
Garliconiongingersoy
and ant spray

Contentment
Cigarettes and hate

Aqua Net
White school paste
Bitter slimy spinach
and blue ditto ink

Confusion
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate

Baseball glove
Mown grass
Fresh popcorn

Sadness
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate

Cramped, stale cars
Claustrophobia and
Cat litter

Loneliness
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate

Petroleum
Locker Rooms
and Perfume

Indifference
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate
Cigarettes and hate

Smoggy skies
Salty beaches
Beer trucks at each end of the block
Love

And...
Blessed...
Divorce
Julian D Aug 2018
Cigarettes, I know you will be the death of me,
but you relieve me of my stress.

Cigarettes, I bought you for a total of 12.99,
you are my everyday investment.

Cigarettes, I smoke you 10 times a day,
aiming for a total of 15.

Cigarettes, you make my heart ache, but my loyalty for you is timeless.

Cigarettes, I think I have lung cancer, I will see you soon after chemotherapy,

Cigarettes, my blood pressure increased.

Cigarettes, sorry I was gone, I suffered a stroke.

Cigarettes, why am I being hospitalized?

Cigarettes, are you trying to harm me?

Cigarettes, will nicotine help treat my addictions I have for you?

Cigarettes, I feel sick.

Cigarettes, "hello are you there?"

ANSWER ME!!
                        
Cigarettes ----------------------------------------------
Amulet Atari Oct 2016
The smell of cigarettes
Flows in and out
Of your coat pocket

And sometimes that hurts
Sometimes it hurts that
Although we still talk

We are no longer close
Do you know how old I am?

The wound is still fresh
I've aged, of course
But I still feel 12 years old, confused,
Excluded,
And abandoned

It still stings
When we don't have
anything to say to eachother

Still hurts
That the longest conversations we've had the past five or six years
Have been arguments

The smell of cigarettes
Follows your steps
And although I hate cigarettes
Hate the way you treat your lungs

It's calming
Because now I smell cigarettes
When you visit
And I smell them
In the arms of my closest friends
And I smell them
When people are struggling, but still getting by

I hate them
I hate the way they burn you
I hate how you know that they hurt you
And you still buy
Pack after pack
Because tobacco companies don't give a **** about about the 16 year old kid
Who's friends rely on the smoke in their chest
They don't give a **** about us
And our breath

I hate cigarettes
And I hate how
You do too
And you still can't get rid of them

I hate cigarettes
But it calms me to smell them

It calms me to know that
Things could be worse
That you've gotten better

That maybe you feel better

The smell of cigarettes
Huffs into the air
When you laugh with us
And when you joke

Do you feel better?

It seems you do, and yet
I worry
Because still you're struggling
And still your skin lays so close to bone
And you joke about it all,
But
Do you feel better?

I hate cigarettes
And I hate worrying about you,
But I have to.

Because as much as you made me cry,
You're also my brother
And when we were young
I didn't have memories without you in them

The smell of cigarettes
Is stuck in your hair
I can smell it
Even in pictures

The smell of cigarettes
Lies in your frail figure
In a smile that reaches your eyes,
And yet looks worn.
And too mature for your youth

I hate cigarettes
But the smell surrounds you.

It wafts from your being
when you acknowledge me
When you acknowledge Jupiter

and in these moments

I love the smell of cigarettes
a poem to my older brother
Woke up late
Day's shot to hell
But, hey it's Friday
So, I guess it's just as well

Called in,
booked the day off
I figured what the hell
Had a coffee and ten cigarettes
But, it's Friday...can't you tell

It never fails to come around
The Friday morning curse
There's nothing you can say or do
That will fix or make it worse
By six a.m the day is shot
And it hasn't started yet
Breakfast is a coffee...cold
And at least ten cigarettes

Figured since
I'm staying home
I'll watch some tv shows
Cable bill got missed this month
I guess that's how it goes

It's Friday
so, I'm going
To head down to the bar
But, I find out in my driveway
That someone stole my car

It never fails to come around
The Friday morning curse
There's nothing you can say or do
That will fix or make it worse
By six a.m the day is shot
And it hasn't started yet
Breakfast is a coffee...cold
And at least ten cigarettes

I think
I'll call a taxi
That'll get me to the bar
Then I think
You *****
You left your wallet in the car

The day
is going nowhere
And it seems, I am too
But, hey
At least it's Friday
And to me...it's nothing new

It never fails to come around
The Friday morning curse
There's nothing you can say or do
That will fix or make it worse
By six a.m the day is shot
And it hasn't started yet
Breakfast is a coffee...cold
And at least ten cigarettes


No wife
No car, a day off too
No tv shows to see
There's nothing
more can happen
That can make this worse for me

Breakfast, it's
cold coffee and
at least ten cigarettes
But, hell
It's frickin' Friday
And the day ain't started yet...

It never fails to come around
The Friday morning curse
There's nothing you can say or do
That will fix or make it worse
By six a.m the day is shot
And it hasn't started yet
Breakfast is a coffee...cold
And at least ten cigarettes
Moe Jun 2014
These cigarettes remind me of you.
But I'll smoke them in hopes of killing all of the hope you left inside of me.
These cigarettes remind me of you.
They burn my skin when I least expect it.
These cigarettes remind me of you.
They are slowly killing me from the inside out.
These cigarettes remind me of you.
But I'll smoke them anyways because this is the only way that I'll taste your lips again.
I finally told her that I'm deeply in love with her and all she said was "don't love me dude"
Emily Dunigan Apr 2017
i don't smoke but i'll take a drags of your cigarettes
just to know what your lips tastes like
and when you ask me if i want my own i'll say no
cause i don't smoke

i thought this would get you hooked on my lips
but they only touch through your blue american spirits
they say cigarettes take years off your life
but i'd risk one of mine for a moment of your time

so i'll smoke of one your cigarettes
just to spend more time with you
then i'll smoke another cigarette
cause one always turns to two

i thought this would get you hooked on my lips
but they only touch through your blue american spirits
they say cigarettes take years off your life
but i'd risk one of mine for a moment of your time

now i've got a pack in my back pocket
cause now i'm addicted to
so would you like to smoke one of me cigarettes
cause i owe this addiction to you
Drew Binkley Sep 2015
cigarettes and barefoot
a diet we thrive on
the barefoot wets the mouth
the cigarette dries like a desert

cigarettes and barefoot
our substitution for an elegant lifestyle
our distraction from pain
the way we cover awkward

cigarettes and barefoot
with bic lighters and plastic cups
we don't need anything else
just the minimum we take

cigarettes and barefoot
we dance in a cloud of smoke
and laugh in a puddle of spilt juice
we clean in the morning

-D.A.B
Michelle Jul 2014
fill my lungs with smoke

I light cigarettes,
in hopes that i will forget you.

i cant

I light cigarettes,
in hopes that the smoke will wash away your scent.

spices and vanilla

I light cigarettes,
in hopes that i will forget how you tasted.

coffee and bagels

I light cigarettes,
in hopes that the fires i start will burn a hole in my memory so i can forget the colour of your eyes, or how they gleamed like sapphires.

i still see the sapphires

And the truth is,
i cannot forget you,
Or how you smelled like spices and vanilla,
Or how every morning when i kissed you and you’d taste like the bagels and coffee that you had,
Or how your eyes are the centre of my universe, and how they glimmer like distant stars a million light years away.

These cigarettes are not enough,
they do not intoxicate me as much as my thoughts of you do.

And even if i tried to drown myself in the deepest oceans,
or if i tried to throw myself off the highest buildings,

i will never, never, be able to forget you.

fill my lungs with smoke
originally written on my private blog on the 22nd of june 2014 chatoyantailurophile.wordpress.com
frankie crognale Dec 2013
caramel macchiato flavored coffee with mint cigarette flavored kisses with your dreamboat lover is the quintessence of what i call "perfection".  if there was a way to describe the way your lips feel against mine, i could only describe it as "cigarettes and coffee".  cigarettes and coffee isn't simply consuming caffeine or inhaling tobacco in your lungs, it's sitting on the roof at 1 am looking at the stars with a blanket around the both of you.  it's laying in the grass with a slight breeze blowing making smoke rings between the arduous kisses.  it's simply sipping a vanilla latte on the corner of a new york city street with a cigarette in your hand, making swirls of smoke as more ash forms above the filter,  looking like some sort of bohemian gods. it's walking along a deserted sidewalk in your black jeans and doc martens with a big t-shirt and coke bottle sunglasses on with your lover on your hip and your menthol in one hand and philter in another.  "cigarettes and coffee" is whatever you can interpret as pure bliss; it's simply whatever makes you happy and whatever makes you want to sit in the grass all night and talk about anything and everything.  there's a lot of people that would argue there's no beauty to the feel of tobacco in your lungs and arabica in your mouth, but evidently, they've never tried cigarettes and coffee.
jorge padre Oct 2014
he started counting cigarettes
the way he did every other night
he counted them like flower petals
with "she loves me"
and "she loves me not"
throwing them afterwards
to the street below.

he started counting cigarettes
the way he did every other night
he counted them like flower petals
but he inhaled the smoke
of the burning petals
and she filled his lungs
and lingered there
for what felt like years.

he started counting cigarettes
the way he did every other night
keeping in mind the seconds
he lost with each stick
he banged his head
against his fist
and cried apologetically.

he started counting cigarettes
the way he did every other night
but, today,
he thought he should stop
but he couldn't help it
it was the only thing left
that reminded him of her -
her nicotine lips
and her warm glow.

he started counting cigarettes
the way he did every other night
he tried to count the times
he said he'd forget
or he said he'd move on
he took another drag,
flicked it to the air,
and said,
"that's it for today."
Both can ****
        The only difference is
                      Cigarettes shatter lungs
         She shatters everything

            I remembered the first moment
my lips pressed the filter
     as I lit it up breathed it all
                savored every smoke
       as if we covered up painful lies
        in a container of painkillers

The same way  
we used to pressed our lips
     sparked something between us
           savored every moment we had
    as if our love was a rose
               in a valley of tulips
Gold
Taylor Jun 2014
As the smoke lingers off of her tongue,
you can see the smirk so evident on her face.
She traces the outline of her lips with her tongue
and gently inhales the cigarette smoke.
You can see the tiny glint of a ***** bottle on her nightstand
and the ashtray that is overwhelmed with burnt out cigarettes.
She is staring at the ceiling
and you have no idea what in the world she is thinking so hard about.
All you know is that you want to know.
And you want to know the way
her lips curve around the tempting neck of the ***** bottle,
or the way her tongue moves as she blows off smoke
from that cataclysmic cigarette she’s holding.
Alcohol and cigarettes,
that’s what everyone thinks ruins your life.
But those two things
are what saves hers.
david badgerow Nov 2011
i smoke cigarettees too **** much.
this is how you know nothing original will be said in this poem.

i use cigarettes as a social crutch.

i don't know about you
but when i'm in the mood to be honest
i'll tell you
i smoke cigarettes because
i want to be 'cool'.

because let's be honest:
i can't think of
a poet
a musician
an actor
an olympic swimmer
a hockey player
a president
a priest
a ****
a serial killer
or a psychiatrist
that's worth mentioning
that did not smoke

yes, i know you can
and go ahead,
but let me first
make a point instead

let me be honest,
if i can smoke a cigarette
and maybe be alone for
5.75 minutes
then maybe
a thought will occur to me
something outside this ******* world
and it will be good enough to write down,
just maybe.

let me be honest
i don't need you
with your judgemental eyes
and your cursory glances
walk away from me
at a party
i don't miss you
i am with her.

i garauntee if you asked
Whitman
Hemmingway
Freud
Phelps
Obama
about their actual relationship with smoking tobacco
they would have similiar descriptions.

but go ahead, tell me
about the hazardous effects of cigarettes
let's talk about the cancer
and the tar
and the disgusting phlem
that i will constantly have to eject
from my throat-hole
when i'm fifty.

go ahead, tell me about
******* people over
and ripping their minds out
and the sickness
and the disease
and how it's all so wrong.
it's as amusing to me as it is to you.
Mcdonald's will **** you.
Pall Mall will **** me.
Holly Nov 2019
Her passion lit the fire at the end of his lipstick stained cigarette,
smoking it was like kissing her all over again.
The smoke burnt his eyes and scratched his throat,
attempting to breathe but the oxygen wasn't there.
She suffocated him.

Their love like a cigarette, set alight and raised to rebellious lips.
Their romantic tragedy reminded him of smoking in the rain,
it was painfully beautiful yet short lived.
She became his addiction, little by little she consumed him.
If only he could quit her,
his lungs would not ache when he's alone.

Unlike his cigarettes, she didn't come with a warning label on the cover.
She did more damage to him than the cigarettes ever could.

So, he left her and returned to his lipstick stained cigarettes.
She left a hole in him no amount of nicotine could ever fill.
He got sick of the taste of cigarettes and how they reminded him of her kiss,
now he lights the cigarettes just to watch them burn.
Olivia Frederick Jun 2015
Two cigarettes
Because  one is not enough
To forget the void
Nor discover the luxury.
One cigarette leaves my mouth watering
For the bitterness of us.
One cigarette doesn't cloud the sky
For me to drown in you.

Two cigarettes
Because three is too many;
I'm alone with myself.
"I'll **** this up" and "I'm not worthy."
Three cigarettes, and it's easier
To burn myself with the ash.
Three cigarettes leaves a taste too sweet
And I crave more and more and more
and more and more and more
and more and more and more and
more and more and more and more
and more and more and more
6/6/2015 12:54 am
Cristina Dean Oct 2015
it arrived on the doorstep this morning

the clothes I kept at his place
spilling out of his old
gym bag,
reeking of
tobacco ash.
my body and mind have been
sorting through it
as a team
separating
colors, darks, whites
while my heart runs
past me
back to those
apartment nights.

and I taste the cigarettes
on the floor of the balcony with our
legs dangling in the air,
in the kitchen frying pasta,
in the bedroom
ashes sprinkled on
velour, on skin,
in the beer,
in the ashtrays that
made this laundry so
*****.

i taste the cigarettes,
and indulge in nostalgia
their flavor
until I remember the
other girl and
know for certain
he must have shared
cigarettes with her too

my ***** laundry
as a helpless witness
on the floor.

i taste the cigarettes
and i wonder how I could
put this defeat
into words instead
of tears.
i'm choking
up, unable to say
anything worth
more than a dime
anything worth more
than a shrug
from you.
can you understand?

there's nothing left
to bite into.

all I can ask is for you
to close
your eyes and
imagine your one lover
lying there
in front of you
smoking cigarettes with another.
I craved cigarettes today
I hate the smell
and the smoke in my throat
I remember being a child,
watching aunts & uncles
smoke their lungs away
as went to fetch the ashtray
they demanded me to go get
the calm
that submerged from their faces after one drag
is what I remember the most
I wonder if they imagined
being the ashes
that carelessly blew into the wind and became one with the smoke
as they inhaled the poison that controlled their happiness
those small pieces of burned tobacco ashes
were free to go
free to roam
wherever their light flight took them
before they evaporated into thin air...

I craved cigarettes today
the last time I craved cigarettes
a woman broke my heart
I remember vividly
that short but very silent ride to the gas station
with her
she watched as I purchased my pack of cigarettes
in distress
she was in shock or sadness with my purchase
I couldn't really make out which
as her condescending lips...
said " Don't die"
as I so desperately wanted to tell her how I had died along time ago from her malicious care
but of course,
my....
passive aggression would not allow me to actually speak those words to the primary cause of my self-inflicting pain
more parts of me died that night
and it wasn't from tobacco
Needless to say
I only smoked two cigarettes that day
after throwing the pack away...
but today.
I craved cigarettes
as a source to extinguish my pain
as if the detrimental inhale would save my soul
it wasn't cigarettes that I craved
it was always the escape
from pain
I craved.
Jeremy Duff May 2013
When the hard cider is all gone
and the pabst is all stale
and the ***** makes you gag
and the drug testing doesn't let you smoke ****
what do you do?
You have a ******* good time
with some great people
and you pack bowls for them
and roll joints for them
and hate the frat boys with them.

You laugh at the funny jokes
and duck call at the bad ones.
You smoke too many cigarettes
and give away your only lighter.

You fall asleep with one of them in your arms.
But don't worry, next weekend it will be someone else.
This time it was a tenacious blonde who's taking you to prom.
Next week it might be the lovely red head who wears his heart on his sleave
or it may be the funny Jewish kid who plays beer pong by himself.
Maybe it'll be the girl who shows up when all the ***** is gone
and sits next to you and lets you hold her close.
But never by yourself,
they're all to lovely to let that happen.

A few days from then you'll go on a walk and bring a few cigarettes and a book
but the cigarettes remind you of them and the book reminds you of her
so you leave Leaves of Grass in the grass and smoke the cigarettes
thinking of the Before.
thinking of the Then.
Not worrying about the Now
and forgetting the When.

You sleep like a baby,
in the sense that you wake up every few hours and struggle to fall asleep without your mother's breathing to sing a lullaby.
She's outside,
falling in to old habits,
throwing two years into a bottle and downing it.
She's smoking her last cigarette so she sneaks into your room careful not to wake your seemingly sleeping Self and digs in your backpack until she finds your cigarettes.

In the morning she will magically have those two years back
and she will have forgotten those cigarettes she took from you.

But you'll throw her empty bottles away before your sister can find them and Understand.
And she won't lend you that twenty bucks she said she would because she spent it on two bottles of Jägermeister.

And the girl who lives down the street knows none of this because to her it's not real.
She only knows that your mother has a two year NA chip
and she only knows that you used to Hate yourself.
She knows that you like her
and she thinks she likes you.
And she lets you put your arm around her
and she snaps at Satan with you.

And you love the lovely red head and you hope he reads this
and is happy  because he is in one of your ramblings.
just as your heart smiles
when you find yourself in one of his.
however more poetic and sensitive and lovely they are.
Shadowhollow Aug 2017
Open,open,open
Quick ,quick,quick
Don't let them hear
Lean over
Light , light ,light
Flame burns , nothing but a lighter
And a pack of cigarettes
Cigarettes,cigarettes,cigarettes
Food for broken souls
Food for those like me
Food , food ,food
Broken,broken,broken
Take my ash stained hands
Take my cold ,cold heart
Take my bitter lips
Warm it , clean them ,sweeten them with your love
Cause that's all I need ......
That and a pack of your finest cigarettes.
I haven't posted in a while . So cigarette me is all that's left .
Camel crush cigarettes
Put them in a fancy box
No, I’m too poor to buy them
But if you pass’em
Then I won’t say no.

People say that it’s unclean
That you’re unclean
That they’re unclean
You smell like a hotel room
And it’s comforting.

Camel crush cigarettes
Your hugs speak of the habit
No, take your precious smoke break
**** it clean to dust
Barreling into death.

People say that it’s unwise
That you’re unwise
That they’re unwise
You smell like drunken Saturdays
And it’s delicious.

Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never felt addiction
No, I don’t think that I could
It’s a scarlet dreamland
With one-way tickets.

People say that it’s unkind
to lungs and mind
They’re right, I find.
But you look like abandon
And it’s inviting.

Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never loved a smoker
No, I’d always been too proper
But if you tasted like that
I wouldn’t mind a bite.

People say that you’re catering
To your un-ease
With a disease.
You feel like contradiction,
And I’m depraved.
09/25/12
Nettie Oct 2014
Tonight is for the lonely people
With stale cigarettes on their lips
Watching the  world
With heavy eyelids
kennedy Dec 2014
I'm not sure how to tell you
That the pack of cigarettes
you bought me is gone
And the one I'm smoking now
Was a gift
From someone else
Red-Writing-Hood Oct 2012
Lollipops to cigarettes
Cooties turned to pregnancy
The cute little girls and boys we once knew at recess are no more, some are drop outs, some are on the news for ****** and others have seemed to disappear from existence
How did this happen?
How did the life we knew so well as children, filled with jump rope and four square, turn into the monstrosity of modern society
The drama now is about boys, drugs, and flunking school, the only so called 'drama' back then was when someone else had the blue crayon you needed to finish your color by number
Computers, televisions, and phones take over the lives of children nowadays, the big pass times when we were kids was to go back in the woods behind our houses and catch salamander, play hide and seek and cops and robbers when it started to get dark
Now?
It's lying to your parents to go out and get drunk, skipping class to go smoke **** and and turning the lollipop in your mouth into a cigarette
Did you ever consider that the lollipop tastes better? That maybe this sticky strawberry mess gives you a better outlook on life?
When you're a kid and you're happy with your crayons and hopscotch you don't care what problems you're faced with: if someones lost; find them, if someone's feelings are hurt; say sorry, if you wanna lose weight; lose it
This lollipop of yours has turned an upside-down world right-side-up again creating brighter perspectives and healthier pass times
So instead of curling our fingers around disgusting cancer sticks and pregnancy tests, maybe we should grab hold of that lollipops taste and lever let go...so the only downfall to life, is cavities.
Cedric McClester Nov 2018
By: Cedric McClester

Smelling like cigarettes ‘n depression
I’ve written down the things I’m expressing
I’m no longer in love (learned my lesson)
No need for speculation or guessing
Cuz it’s obvious what this is about
I was in love but it didn’t work out
Now I wanna cry now I wanna shout
To stop my despair and overall doubt

I’ve earned the right to be blue
If you were me you’d be too
Now I don’t know what to do
It’s like I can’t breathe without you
But this is the point that I’m pressing
Experience taught me a lesson
Love has two sides to it’s essence
I smell like cigarettes ‘n depression

I’m not looking for sympathy
Or to have you pity me
Locked in my room confessing
All of the things I’m here stressing
Smelling like cigarettes ‘n depression
So if you could just let me be
Alone simmering in my misery
Maybe one day I'll finally be free

Like a kid I’m still an adolescent
Locked in my room confessing
All of the things I’m here stressing
Smelling like cigarettes ‘n depression
Given your past transgression
You left my heart in a total recession
And I have only one possession
My cigarettes ‘n my depression



Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2018.  All rights reserved.
I need to know something. I don’t know if you want to tell me or not, but I really don’t care. You’re gonna tell me or you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m already ****** and it won’t take much to push me over the edge into dangerously angry territory.

No, **** it. Never mind. I’m ALREADY in “dangerously angry territory”. No, it wasn’t your fault. I was already close enough I could see the other side of reason before you came along.

But it would still be nice to know, if you’re willing to tell me. I mean, I’m not going to force it from you. That was the plan just a moment ago, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided that my bitterness is not your fault. I won’t make you pay for it.

Yet I do feel as if it would do me a world of good to know.

Where were you when I was falling in love?

Were you sitting in a back seat of a crowded subway train with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” in the other, holding it in front of your face as if it’s pages were a fascinating mirror? Was there an old man sitting near who turned to look at you every so often to the point where it creeped you out? Maybe you eventually said something to him, like “Excuse me, but is there something you wanted to say to me?"

“Why would you get that idea?” he would ask, as if he were totally oblivious to his invasive nature.

“I don’t know…you just keep looking at me and I wondered if there were a reason for it.”

“Nope. Not that I can think of.”

Did you smack him real good right then? Did you draw blood? I hope you did. I hope the driver had to stop the train to come back and drag you off of him. It would have been a real drag if the police had to be summoned, but on the other hand, wow, how ****** the thought of you resisting arrest.

Or did you cower into your corner, turn a page in your book and let the lecherous ******* carry on? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the kind of girl you are. I think you’re a firecracker.

And I think that wherever you were when I was falling in love is not where I wanted you to be. Not where you should have been.

Because I fell in love with a robot. Who knows why I fell in love with an ottoman? I didn’t know she was one at the time. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall in love with a machine? No, she was flesh and bones when I met her. She seemed normal, like all the other women I’ve ever seen or known.

But then she started smoking cigarettes. She carried them around in a little soft leather pouch that could be mistaken for nothing else but a case for holding the little *******.

God I hate cigarettes. I hate the smell of them, whether they’re lit or not. I hate the dark tan color of their filters with the little white dots speckled randomly. I hate the cotton that stuffs their filters. I hate the white paper with the almost imperceptible stripes banding around their length. I hate how the brand is stamped close to the base of the filter. I hate the packages that they come in and the cellophane that wraps them. I hate how stray flecks of tobacco gather in the bottom of the boxes and the wrappers, too. I hate how they make a person’s breath stink. I hate how they make a person’s clothes reek. I hate the way they look in a shirt pocket. I hate the way they look between people’s fingers and in their mouths. I hate the way they burn down to the nub and the ash that they leave behind. I hate pitch black nicotine stains on ******* smokers’ hands. I hate the way some people put one between their ear and noggin and actually think it makes them look cool. I hate how smokers seem to have some code of sharing, how it’s always “Hey, can I *** a smoke from you?” and 99 times out of 100 the answer is “sure”. It’s never, “Okay, but you gotta pay me back.” Oh no, Smoker’s Karma is at work here. I hate the way too many people call ‘em “smokes”. “I’m off to get a pack of smokes.” Good God, I think that’s lame. “Smokes”. Ha. I hate the way smokers ***** about laws that prohibit them from smoking in public and how so many of them have absolutely no regard for non-smokers who not only can’t stand the smell of the ******* but would just as soon not chance even the most remote possibility of getting lung cancer caused by second hand smoke. I hate how smokers would tell that person, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. The chances of that happening are one in a million.” So what? *******. ******* with your nasty cancer sticks and **** your tar-lined wheezing lungs, too. **** the death bed you will lie on when emphysema steals your last breath. **** the oxygen tanks that cost almost as much as all the cartons of cigarettes you have wasted your money on during the last who-knows-how-many years of your life. **** all your attempts to quit. **** the feeling of disappointment that overwhelms when you fail once again, as Mighty God Tobacco hugs you, strokes your wet hair, wipes the sweat from your forehead and the tears from your eyes. Sweet summer sweat. The tears of a clown.

You know what? She never smoked before. I never would have thought she would pick up that disgusting habit, but she sure as hell did. Picked it up like it was a twenty dollar bill someone lost that she found on the side of the road as she walked to the smoke shop to buy another pack of Marlboro Lights.

There’s another thing I hate about cigarettes. “Smoke Shops”. Where the value-minded smokers purchase their wares. Not “Cigarette Store”. Not “Tobacco Warehouse"…oh, no. It’s a SMOKE SHOP. You’re going to buy some smoke, brother Jim. You’re gonna spend too much money at the 7-11 and it’s all gonna go up in smoke, but by the grace of God you are gonna save a couple of bucks by purchasing them at the “Smoke Shop” instead of the convenience store. You complain until you’re blue in the face about how ridiculously high the ciggy prices are at normal retail outlets, but when you run out of ‘em and the God-blessed “Smoke Shop” is closed ‘cuz it’s Sunday you’ll drive like a madman to Love’s and blow ten bucks because there’s a “Buy Two Get One Free” special going on. What a ******* good deal that is, eh, mister?

Furthermore…CIGGYS??? I hate how people call ‘em “ciggys”. But not nearly as much as I hate the word “cigarette”. I cannot stand to speak the word. I hate the way it rolls of my tongue. I hate the way the word sounds like it means “little cigars”.

I hate the way some smokers empty out their car ashtrays in the parking lot. I hate the way all the butts look lying there in a heap, a pile of paper soaked with the spittle of a hundred different mouths. And yet the nicotine python grips some desperate smokers so tightly that they will pick them up and try to smoke the last tiny flecks of tobacco from their crushed and blackened ends. I’ve even seen people extract the remaining **** from several discarded butts, roll it all up in a Zig Zag paper and smoke it. Don’t these people even know what Zig Zag papers are for? They sure ain't for tobacco, Charter.

“Butts”. There’s another word in the smokers lexicon that just sounds silly. “Smoke ‘er down to the ****, Jack, we’ve got more!” “I don’t have an ash tray, Terry, so just put your BUTTS in that half empty soda can over there on the table”…never thinking that there might be someone else at the party who could very likely mistake that particular pop can for his own and take a mighty swig from it. Oh my God, the thought, it gags me. How nauseating it would be to feel one of those wretched things fall against your lips and…Egad…the flavor…and yet the cruel smoker will laugh at such misfortune.

****.

God help me.

She was not a robot when I met her. Oh, no, she was a beautiful, exciting, passionate loving woman with a heart of gold and a desire that was practically insatiable. Here…take a look, I have a photograph in my wallet. See what I mean? That’s right, daddy-O, she was a real dreamboat. I used to carry this picture with me wherever I went…I guess I still do, huh? But I don’t know why. I don’t know why I torture myself looking at it, remembering what was, all we had, our bright and glorious future wrecked and deserted by her newfound proclivity for smoking cigarettes. Yeah, my friend, she was a real keeper. But you know what? **** her now, y’know? Just turn her over and **** her.

But hey…perhaps I’ve been too harsh on the smoker in general (if not to her…no, not to her). Perhaps I have exaggerated a bit. After all, some of my best friends smoke. It’s their business, not mine. Never has been mine. I know that. If they knew how I felt about the whole thing, whose to say they wouldn’t tell me to ****** off and never come back? Then again, if they are so shallow as to take any of this as a personal insult, then maybe, just maybe they aren’t my friends after all. I doubt the robot would want anything more to do with me if she knew what a stalwart anti-smoker I am. But I thought she felt the same. She DID feel the same. She told me as much. Before she lost her soul. Before she started smoking cigarettes. Before she started bumming ciggys.

I got no time for changes in her life so now I ask you again…where were you when I was falling in love?

Were you sitting in a Pentecostal Holiness church on a hard pew early Sunday morning before the service began, thumbing through the hymnal, looking for one that best expressed your feelings of devotion at that point in your spiritual journey? And what would that hymn have been? “Onward Christian Soldiers”? “Peace in the Valley”? “In the Garden”? “Smoke on the Water”? “Hotel California”? Maybe some obscure Black Sabbath song tucked in at the end of the book, next to the Doxology?

Did your hair shimmer, reflected in the light that poured through the stained glass window directly behind you? Did you feel it’s heat on your neck? Did it draw out beads of perspiration there, glistening? Would you have let me lick them and taste their saltiness even in the sanctuary of the church building? Probably not. But I don’t think the idea would repulse you like it would some other bonnet headed midi-skirt wearing holy rollin’ *****.

Maybe I would have asked you outside so that you might feel a little more comfortable with what I’d had in mind.

And maybe you would have told me “no”. I couldn’t blame you for that. No, I wouldn’t. It’s only natural for a real woman to guard her integrity in situations such as this one. I could not hold that against you.

Is that where you were? I need to know. Where the hell were you when I was falling in love?
Wayne Wysocki Aug 2018
Two cigarettes and a beer, dear
That's how long I'll be here
If you never show
Then I'm gonna go
After two cigarettes and a beer.

You know I'm not big on forgivin’
And not much for talkin’ things through
But if you’ll swing on by
I'll give it a try
Though I don't think I'll hear nothin’ new

Baby I've heard your last reason
For standin’ me up like you do
You think it's all right
If I'm waitin’ all night
And that's why I'm just givin’ you

Two cigarettes and a beer, dear
That's how long I'll be here
If you never show
Then I'm gonna go
After two cigarettes and a beer.
© 2018 Wayne Wysocki
I met Neal Cassady last night in a waking dream sitting across from me with his back turned to the noise; the bar was loud. He repeatedly leaned forward and asking if I wanted a smoke.
        He looked just like Neal, talked like him. I hated and admired him just like I would the real Neal Cassady. His mind was incredible; beyond the worries of mortality, no thoughts or pains of hubris. He had the candor that I lacked only because I hadn't the nerve to jump first. When I asked him if he truly was the great Cassady, he stared at me from across the table with a wry smile; patted his breast pocket down, leaned back and said as he turned with precision out of his chair,
        "Let's go for a smoke".
        Such practiced determination, he was already outside before I had put on my coat. Of course I had no cigarettes of my own, he had expected me to bring one for the both of us. But I for one expected him to procure an entire carton by the time I was outside; one bent cigarette from every Saintly being at the bar.
        And what a bar! Great young gone gals; dressed in short skirts and long autumn coats; wool scarves around their necks and under chins beneath cold steel eyes. Ahh, forever young the white dresses and mistresses of the college bar.
        By the time I had opened the door and exhaled my first breath of the crisp night air, Neal was playing the part of locomotive engine with a German couple who were smoking and pretending to be Parisian. The three of them were standing in formation of a triangle on the edge of a stone staircase with a railing leading down into a steep lawn with Neal’s back facing the moon. It was all arranged in a perfect geometric mandala of overlapping Platonic solids.
        As I approached the cloud, Neal was recounting the tale of a nurse he had lain in the backseat of her father's station wagon in Nebraska in the heat of the afternoon sun. The German man was stocky and ill-dressed for the weather. He told me later that his name was Heinrich, but I did not believe him even though I knew he had nothing to hide. The woman whom I believed to be only his girlfriend told me, with a thick German accent, that her name was Deline. I believed her. She was well-dressed for the weather and smoking heavily; style is everything.
        "They've graciously offered to roll us a dozen", Neal expelled between great gusts of smoke, a boyish grin smeared on his face by the thousand red lips and wet ***** of passed consequence. Even in the light of a single lamppost coming through the haze that billowed forth from the three talking chimneys, I could still see a sheen in Neal's eye. The sort of sheen that implied hooliganisms. The sort of sheen you see before a person flies off the handle. The exact sheen you see before you wake up tomorrow in the late light of the afternoon, wondering who the Hell took your hand last night and jumped into total darkness with you. That is, if there was somebody around to take your hand.
        I liked Neal.
                He had a style about him that reminded me of a dark velvet curtain. Once you had passed through that curtain in your business casual attire, you witnessed the burgundy coloured stain of truth. There was no backpedaling after that; your chains would knot up and you would fall off the ride if you tried.
        The German couple looked around at their surroundings and the both of us with a degree of boredom. I had seen them earlier in the bar, they looked bored then too. Neither had spoken to the other once and I was beginning to feel like we were exasperating them.
        “Who cares? They offered to roll us a dozen” I thought. What did it matter how Neal got them to do it, they've offered twelve cigarettes and now they belong to us.
        Deline handed Neal and I six cigarettes each; they were magnificently rolled.
        “Goodbye, then! Thank you for your business”, Neal said and slid down the railing to the lawn below, lighting his cigarette mid-slide. I had just lit mine and started after him down the staircase. I turned around and spoke clumsily with a cigarette bobbing at the corner of my mouth,                      
        “Yes… thanks”, and left without another word.

        Neal walked with sporadic intensity; arms often stabbing out into the blanket of night; legs that would walk straight and stiff but then bent and fast with sudden changes as if he was preparing to spring off into the evening of speckled lampposts and smoke. His head bobbed West to East, North to South, and all Axis’ between X, Y and Z. The more I stared at this character whom I called Neal the more I thought of him as an illusion of my own delusions. When I had finished that thought, Neal had spun around and laughed a good hearty and honest laugh; he seemed to have read my mind and proceeded to flick the space between by eyebrows with his thumb and *******. The pain was real enough. This Neal must be real, unless I had gone full mad with lunacy. We blasted off down the avenue which connected the college bar to the dormitories and the library after that.
        Beyond the avenue laid the cozy valley of goodnight downtown with all it’s lights of sodium pearls below and us upon the hill top looking down with eager intensity. Neal gave another rounded laugh and stared with mad eyes above my head and pointed straight up into the sky at Sirius.
        “Tonight, yes yes, we go out. Not just out, my dear friend, but up. Yes yes, to the great up-and-over. Beyond the next stop we absolutely must climb.”

         I don’t know what mad beast had possessed me that evening but I followed this ghost; this great memory of romantic America into the heart of the infinite night.
        “Good gal Deline”, said Neal

        “Who?” I replied
        “Nimble fingers, strong hands for the German working class” he said, “Great gone gal. Good gal. Fine gal by all standards of beauty and sleek german ingenuity”
        “Hmm”, I responded inhaling my cigarette deeply. The Germans were just fine at rolling, but the tobacco was all American. It was harder and harder for me to physically keep up with Neal. He kept speeding off sporadically twenty feet in front of me, sometimes stopping and spouting at young folks asking for cigarettes. 

        “But you’ve already got one” They would say

        “Yes yes, but it’s for when I’m not smoking one is why I want one”, Neal would answer as he trailed off further and further down the road. They thought he was mad, but they all smiled nonetheless.

        My curiosity was brimming. Who was this mad man? Who was this loon impersonator of the American night? I could not stand by my idle silence and unquestioning.
        “What’s the plan tonight?”, I asked

        “What plan? No good plan. Only great plan and great plain rising higher and higher and we will be up all night but on top of the world for we must climb up and up forever until we can climb no more, and then after we can climb no more then we must climb a little further for life itself is nothing more than an infinite climb ever higher and why not get there faster than all the rest?”

        I had stopped walking and Neal’s voice echoed and vibrated the walls of the stairs between the library and the meal hall. His voice was like that of mountain that had slid beneath the ground reborn into an endless peak above.
“Jailbird Cassidy. Great bellowing Cassidy all energy and no direction, but getting there in no time just the same Cassidy”, I thought to myself.
“I trust you Neal”, I had said out loud.
“Not yet! First great big night time breakfast for you and me, for one can not climb without a good energy and good rounded stomach digested of food and stories.”
Maxine Robbins Feb 2016
For the first two months of college I didn’t speak
Convinced everyone here are hillbilly freaks
Then you asked to borrow my paint brush
Long brown hair in a bun and brows so lush
I gave it to you in a heartbeat
Because you were the first person I thought was neat

Im still not sure how I got so lucky to befriend you
I’ve never felt a connection this real and true
When we sit in the forest smoking **** and cigarettes
And you’re still wearing the same paint covered sweats
Singing to Rihannon by Fleetwood Mac
I felt myself gaining my soul back

I can’t decipher what’s hiding behind your dark brown eyes
But your passion for art is as tall as the skies
You inspired me to change my point of view
Maybe this place isnt so bad, who knew
Your kindness cracked my heart’s thick shell
And painted the lines with shades of pastel

No boy ever told me they cried when they moved away
Your open and truthful soul makes everything ok
The freckles sprayed on your cheeks are like artwork
That’s a companion piece to your crooked smirk
I cried thinking we would drift apart once school’s done
But you told me we’ll always be friends in the long run

So
Thank you
Thank you for being my friend
Thank you for being who you are
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
I remember when you were all
Tattoos & cigarettes
For me-

Cherries and swallows inked on your skin
You knew how tattoos got me going
Especially on you.

How you used to light a Camel
With a devilish grin
And blow your smoke right at my face

Maybe a few smoky kisses,
**** in your scally cap
While you’d snap inhale

Huge white ***** of smoke
Popping out of your mouth,
Right back in,

God how I loved that,
And you knew how your smoking got me going-
Your smoking was always the sexiest.

In our little barn
You’d show off your new tattoos
Smiling like the sun.

I still dream about
The tattoos & cigarettes
We used to share
The Bleak Poet Nov 2016
I used to hate the smell of cigarettes and coffee.

But now I've become familiarised to it and actually find myself longing for the scent

I’ve grown to love the smell just as I've grown to love you.

When you would kiss me it tasted of stale cigarettes and bitter coffee with a hint of whisky.

I used to be disgusted by it but now I find myself intoxicated by your kisses

The farther you pushed me away the more I wanted to be near you.

Now you've gone

And I've never felt closer to the very thing that ruined me;

The very thing that left me craving bitter coffee and stale cigarettes

– Stale Coffee and Bitter Cigarettes // F.C.
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
imadeitallup May 2014
Blame it on
Your absent father
Your addict mother
Your unexpected children
Blame it on
Anyone, and anything
So you never have to
Take responsibility
For your own actions

It's the whiskey
That hit me
It's my own shards
That tore me apart
It's a malevolent God
That lied about love
'Cause you don't do anything

Blame it on
My fragile psyche
My insecurities
My "impossible" needs
Blame it on
Anyone, and anything
So you never have to
Take responsibility
For what you've done to me

It's the cigarettes
That stole my breath
The weight of my expectations
That broke my trust
The spinning of my own wheels
That drove me into madness
'Cause you don't do anything
Everyone has a **** like this in their life.

— The End —