"ciggerate" poems
I'll take it back to those dark dim light streets and start again.
I'll never look back over my cold shoulder. There is now static in the midst. Like the final curtain call of a tragic happy ending. Deranged by this false pretension that you have embedded into my beautiful flaws. Lost in my own Dark morgue holding a ciggerate in my hand. Every drag closer to my dead line, but more bliss than dying next to a harlot, liar, and trader.
Baby why couldn't of you of just trusted my word? Now just look at this mess. Your beautiful mess. My disaster. My best gentlemen suit now ruined. I can wash out the stains of regret, but not the blood on your filthy hands that isn't your own. Set the trial. Prosecute the guilty. **** the false idols and beat the cheeks of the ignorant.
Your a addict for those tall tale accusations that feed your hunger. Like the deep belly of the beast that is never satisfied. Seeking the image of your face to destroy, but your faceless to my devine perspective of a fake object I once looked up too.
Set the trial. Prosecute the guilty. **** the false idols and beat the cheeks of the ignorant.
Your beautiful mess.
My disaster.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Fumes outline your porcelain lips
Making it hard to forget
The memories that you and I spent
Each time a ciggerate is lit
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 1:17 AM UTC
There was a garden of un-thorned red roses
protected by un-imaginable silvery- pink cages
fenced behind the stony stretched
rib-like walls
they said fumigation on roots and petals are necessary
but he took my hands and handed me a lit-ciggerate..
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 2:08 AM UTC
Bleary, dreary bifocals looked out through seeing eyes. At the maze of apiculture before him. He pushed a cart his whole life, never stepping up on the ledge to ride it.
Every Tuesday night, his fist packed tight full of ones. Uncrumbling, Washington from his back pocketed jeans. He'd lay him out flat, on the desk, like I should be impressed. One pack of cigs please.
He'd take his cart, around the world & back. Show kaleidoscope girls a good time. Because no matter how pretty that **** picture was, no matter how many times you tore it a part...it was always ugly. Just like the make up, that caked up the beauty on her face.
Parking lot pickups, corner cat-calls, was all she would be worth, a penny in the gutter, if she was lucky. Face up, grasped by hands that'll never love her. Such a steep price, for such a cheap use of love. Generic.
He tells them, he loves them as his boots slide on, comfortable. Too much in a hurry to take his socks off. Humming, Spin Doctors under his breath. He breaths heavily, like he worked so hard that day.
She holds onto morales like lose change, change is lose when you're use, to anything. That shows up on the corners on a Tuesday night, with something new to ignite. Not just the ciggerate between his lips. Lion skin, hipocrathy.
I lay the bills neatly in the drawr, wondering what price he really pays for the stress to relieve his mind. What price does the girl pay, how many clinics does she visit in a year. Baby girl YOUR NOT AN ACCIDENT, YOUR WORTH MORE THAN THE WORDS THAT HIT YOUR CHEEK LIKE A SLAP YOU HAVE MORE POTENTIAL THAN THE MEN YOU LET COMFORT YOU INTO THIS ABUSIVE SOLIDTUDE. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL, I WOULD SPEND EVERY CENT I HAD JUST TO SIT & TALK WITH YOU.
**Luke 7:47
"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”"**
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
My hands smell like smoke,
But I haven't used a ciggerate in three years,
My breathe smells like liquor,
But I haven't drank in ages,
Maybe I'm dreaming,
Maybe I'm dead,
Is this hell? Inside my head,
Maybe the LSD finally kicked in
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
I cuddle deeper into your ciggerate coated hoodie. Taking in the scent, making me sicker. But it's so comfortable.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
I asked a man for a ciggerate, he pulled the pack out of his back pocket. Handed me one, like it was a loaded gun. Like I was going to laugh and make fun. Turn on him quick & run. I stood there in the dark breeze humming Bob Dylan. He turned to me and said, " kid I see you with a gun to your head, always hiding in bathrooms like that's your heaven instead" he layed out the floor plans on how life worked. Graphs and data of the sorts. No fancy words, no past life inquiry. Not a man but an eagle. He said he still sees me with a gun in my hand as he flew away to some unreachable tree top. The lights faded out, realizing how alone you are, with a gun to your head, on the bathroom floor trying to make it to heaven instead, you dip your toes in the lake of fire. It's warm, I could stay a while.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
Just light up another ciggerate
And let me smoke my lungs dead
How else am I supposed to handle it
When my heart can't lead my head
Let the air I breath change for worse
Don't call out when my pulse slows
No need to bring a doctor or a nurse
For I am that single withering rose
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
Sun drops and ciggerate kisses,
Hot pavement buildings,
Side walk cracks,
Flower stems,
Fish kisses,
Fall for me
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
It hasn't even been ten minutes yet,
Already outside sweatpants hanging off my hips, you can finally see the bones again,
A ciggerate between my lips so quick,
I don't have time to remember that I don't smoke, but the offer was there so why not take it, I've got more toxins in my body I can handle it, cold hands on colder concrete, I can hear the boys next store talking about me, they say I'm a broken bird in a world where I'm forced to fly,
They whisper the words pathetic, yet have never outstretched a hand to a childhood friend, who's dying, trying to believe in a God,
When every else knows she's lying, the unforgivable sin always dancing in, her brain, a mess, a wreck. Her heart, a detached chain link fence, always looking through but never reaching, and she's sick and tired of all the needless beating, the 3 am screaming, knocks on her bedroom door during the night send her reeling into terrorized wakings, remembering who's always on the otherside waiting, what did she do wrong this time, like living in the hood, but all her family thinks it's good, the way her parents raised her up. They don't know about the glass and beatings and the blood. Cause she smiles, & Yaweh smiles they use to say, but it all leads back to a scared little white girl in the suburbs, sitting on the porch step, asking God what he's doing, she cries out," lord my love for you is abundant some days I get lost in it, 1 hour of intimacy and feeling wanted, I walk away broken and daunted, sitting on a porch stoop waiting for the next train to come by, you won't see me in the morning"
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC