"what is an addiction to you?" they asked, “well” you begin, “an addiction is having a cigarette, and just when you finish it, you feel like you need another one” but what you have yet to sink into are the depths of your imagination that you can’t care to to dwell on, because you’re too busy floating on the surface of your own soul.
You see,
An addiction is having your first taste of the igniting fumes as they dance on your tastebuds, manipulating the fact that no matter how good it may taste, that is what’s going to destroy you. its pushing the pessimism out of the inevitable because you’re fooled into being blind enough to think that this isn’t the thing thats going to **** you. It's the trick it plays when you think the smoke is beautiful as it caresses itself around your touch of naive passion, when the smoke is only the remains of the damage you’ve already faced.
It's a belonging you covetously latch onto in a desperate attempt to find any source of comfort, when you don’t even realise that it's only comforting because you’ve filled it up with everything you hate about yourself, every word you wish you never said, or thing you wish you never did. It's filled with every person you wish you never met and hurt you wish you never faced.
But maybe its the kind of addiction thats filled with everything you love about yourself, every word you wish you did say or thing you did do. Maybe its filled with every person you wish you spoke to, or hurt you wish you had to face. either way, you’ve locked that up so deep down inside of you that you’ve lost the possibility of an easy escape, you have to find something that destroys you to make it reappear, even if it's only a brief reminder. A delicate touch. A gentle wind of scent.  
You see, nothing is ever like your first addiction. You could be skimming pebbles before you realise to shoot stars, but no matter how much bigger or brighter that star may seem, it will never truly give you the same release that skimming that pebble did.
You let your addiction take over your senses because you believe thats the only thing that can give you a sense of comfort. You don't even begin to consider that this addiction is whats burning your withered soul into nothing but a pile of ashes, swept in the wind of humanity and reality. An addiction is living with the reality of rotting flesh and damaged bones; you can’t even stand alone because you’ve let your addiction glue itself with the fear of loneliness to your hand, so you think of nothing other than it being a part of you, an attachment, a parasite ******* the life out of you, whereas all you’ll ever believe is that its ******* the poison out of your pure blood.
An addiction is something you may not even realise you’re addicted to because you haven’t let yourself get hungry enough to lust for it. It's always there. It's destroying you. Even the smell of your addiction gives you a sense of relief that you’re not alone, when in fact the smell is there to remind you that you are trapped in a state of your own mind.
You have chosen to be oblivious to be the flaws it possesses, because at the time nothing can seem better than your first addiction, nothing in this world could beat the smell, the taste and the touch of your first addiction, and you have let that take over your senses to a stage where if that addiction was taken from you, it would hollow out your heart like a pin pricked egg.
No addiction is better for you than your first love.
Did you really think i was talking about the cigarette?

I'm that pretty kitty
Sitting on your windowsill
Leaving dander on the glass
Looking more than my fill

My fur is brown and black
My claws are sharp as knives
My teeth are quite sinister
And I've still all nine lives

You've never paid me much attention
And I ceased attempts to receive it long ago
You go about your day ignoring me
And I stare covetously through the window

I know you can see me
Every blue moon, you'll wave
We actually get along in a way
But not enough to sate all I crave

I wonder if you'll ever notice
My stare is unadulterated jealousy
But you never seem to notice
I also envy that naivety

But I'm just the pretty kitty
Perched up on this windowsill
All I want is to be seen from inside
But no one ever will

I've only eyes for the inside though
I've got my friends on this side of the glass
And they look at me, bemused and disgusted
Because, in all ways and forms, I'm obsessed

But I'm different and I'm on the wrong side
And I'm just the pretty kitty on the windowsill
But I'm not comfortable with my own kind
And with yours, I'm just good for visual appeal

So I'll sit here on this windowsill
Gazing enviously
Because neither side fits me
But it fits them perfectly

The child was reluctant, obstructive, rudely derogated the rules of night-time. In return, the mothers smile crusted over; her anticipating face raged with love, with tenderness, with necessity.

Hold back desperation: “Shall I read you a story?” Yes, a boring story, a story to bore your little eyes closed and your little head droopy and your little snores out.

All children learn to say no and this one was a champion already. Still gentle and formless it was not quite male, not quite female. It was androgynous, sexless, precocious with the possibilities of a gender unslated -- as if pigeon-holes could be sated at a later date. A choice depending on pointing out a celebrity from a picture in a magazine, and saying: ‘that one’.

“I don’t want to be in bed.”

This was said from bed, defiant, huddled and muddled within the pastry of the sheets and wriggling like a still-living filling. Four-and-twenty blackbirds, all singing.

Isn’t this a pretty dish thought mother.

“But bed is good,” she reasoned, “bed is a fine fine thing to be in.” She eyed it herself, covetously, the crispness of the linen holding the warm buttered biscuit smell of a child’s hair.

“Bed isn’t good. It’s lonely.”

Yes, lonely, sang the mother to herself, alone to be with myself only. Swaying with sleeplessness, mother’s voice burst with secrets.

“Bed is good. It is. It is where you were made.”

And you, child, are a good thing. Making you was good. Therefore beds are good.

Mother blinked dreamily, lies rushing unbidden to fill the gap between a child's world and the truth; the question came immediately.

“Have you ever seen someone making a *** out of clay?” she asked in response. Her arms raised in front of the child’s face. “Have you ever seen the clay sculpted, squeezed?” Then she lowered them. “And this was the oven. This is where you were baked.”

She wondered what kind of dreams these lies would bring, dreams of whispered fertility, Freudian dreams of plumbers removing bottoms and widdlers. Dreams of children baked out of clay and, rocked from the cradle; falling, smashing.

Your *******, when love-based
within their beautiful forming,
and then  glorious unfolding
are Love and Light's  extracorporeal
pulsings;
focusing   l o v e t on e d
sonic shockwaves directly at the  machine's
extremely intricate innerworkings..

Having,  through years of horror-based
survival tactics; in desperation.. slowly learned;
now ingrained-- softening up the very
innerwall-linings of your very spirit
in such a way as to unknowingly
provide footing
for the machine's  deep embedment,
and then,  permeation  of all things
previously, you..
having now enwrapped itself into
your very sinews

holding your precious spirit   captive
from the the soar

These passionate, late night forays
outside the wire with you
are not exploitative, but instead
are love-driven  deeply focused,
fully intentioned pingings of Light's
Relational sound waves
aimed directly at the beautiful you
held so tightly, so covetously by the machine
as your wonderfully  nectar-filled body
responds late at night, aligning
to the me, you have come to know..
heightening your beautiful response
to the point of screaming,  passionate release--

your own, fully love based..

      extracorporeal..

unwelcoming,   of the machine.

This is our world
Sturm und Drang
confusion and unrest proliferate
reason is hung

ideologies divide
vain and rhetorical debate
the leaders are at odds and they vociferate
right decisions are seldom made

the cleavage of poor and rich
nations their own interests covetously seek
summits are ambiguous and deceptive
promises are unfulfilled and outcome is bleak

history's dark lessons loom and repeat
glory is ephemeral and mankind is weak
foundations were built to be demolished
dark ages return and civilisation falls from its peak.

The Flame is dull
Calm hues of lilac and amaranth
Soon it will diminish
And fade into the west
Great voyages and hunters
Will seek it in distant lands
They desire it covetously
That they may reignite
The first city below
Little do they know
The flame is not what they think
And its forced return
Will doom them all
For the moon looms ever closer
It quivers and shakes
Eager to break apart
And rain down upon the earth