Rockie Apr 2015
Blood, Lungs and Alcohol
Addiction, Hell and Help
How much more
Can Aidan take
Before he decides to die?
Aidan is the main character of something I am currently writing with an alcohol/drug addiction. I've written it here as a poem :)
Moe Jun 2014
My lungs were corrupted by the lies that hang around you.
My heart was torn by the hands that touched them (yours).
I smoke to fill my lungs with something other than the remnants of your lies.
And my heart is locked away so others cannot touch it.
You have destroyed my insides without my consent, so now I will continue the destruction but this time it will be by my own terms.
she has ruined me.
Patrick Forrest Aug 2014
Today, it somehow made so much sense to me
That a cigarette could make it easier to breathe.
Sometimes all you need is a little more substance;
Some sort of reason to keep the air coming
Into your broken and weary body,
Despite every little thought in your head
That tells you not to bother.
Westley Barnes Mar 2012
The air doesn’t taste so clean anymore.

I can remember being younger and gasping for breath,
the midsummer breeze provided me with plenty,
and I swallowed pintfulls and laughed at the energy it gave
and at the thumping of my heart.
The air was a little milder then.
It was around the same time,
in my childhood
when I remember that it actually snowed for Christmas.
So I almost must have felt the cold,
but temperature does not threaten you
when you are young and your lungs are full.
Not like nowadays,
when the only reason you don't destroy your lungs with smoke
is because you've seen the hospital wards,
heard of loved ones being eaten away because of
a malignant growth,
but that still doesn’t stop you
from taking the odd toke.

It hardly seems to matter anymore,
now that we are all living in denial.
But there was a time in our lives when our lungs were important,
if you didn’t have strong ones you couldn’t keep up with your friends,
and you needed to keep fit if you wanted to be a "soldier" in the "war"
this being before boisterous childish ideals
realised the dull pointlessness
of living in a neutral country,
where you were more likely to die in a car crash,
or by smoking your lungs tar-black.
You always wondered why your mother kept telling you to start
when she could never stop.
Did she not want you to have as much fun as she was having?
Imagine how many extra holidays you could have spent together
had she saved the money instead of spending it on cigarettes
and if your sister had never been born
you could have sailed twice around the world,
gone to Disneyland twice a year
and went skiing in the alps
instead of waiting to grow up in BORING OLD IRELAND,
waiting for school to end and the rain to stop.
Imagine how many years she has wasted,
because each cigarette costs fourteen seconds of your life.

Why does she want to leave you so soon?

Like her own mother, smoking her way to an early grave.

Its funny how you were the one who kept such care of your lungs
and yet it was you who was the first to end up in hospital.
A place where you could see the germs buzzing,
waiting for you as you arrived through the door.
They're going to make you lay in bed for a whole week
and you haven’t even broken your leg.
Yet they're smiling at you now, daft bastards.
"I wonder if they'll still be smiling if I never make it out of this mess."

But you have to admit it tastes splendid.
Takes the edge off,
puts things into perspective,
helps the time pass,
and makes you look "interesting."
Nowadays it’s a lot more social anyway.
Presents you with an excellent opportunity
to strike up conversations outside of pubs.
You could meet the love of your life if one day she asks you for a light.
No one really wants to grow old anyway.
Pissing yourself in the same chair,
your brain unbalanced by the mind-numbing anti-depressants
and the oncoming surge of arthritis.
Ian Miranda Nov 2012
I want to sip
the morning dew off
your body
Taste the honey
that collects on your goosebumps

I want to hear the raindrops
dangling from your skin
aching to roll
like a current
through your coral fingers

I want to trace
the sunlight
on your lips
that leave your warm kisses
on my neck

I want your nails licking my back
like hot steel
crashing against my frozen body

I want to run my fingers through
a curtain of your hair
Flowing freely in my palms
I want to drink the colour from it

I want to taste every word
through our kisses
And decypher
the secrets engraved on your tongue

I want to lift you up
with a single pinky finger
and encase you in hands
that feel like arms

I want to love you
like leaves carried in the wind
like the stars cradled in the sky
like your breath surging in my lungs
Haley Elizabeth Jan 2015
If every song I wrote to you
would take your breath away
Then why am I suffocating?
Kate Mitchell Dec 2014
I have trouble at high altitudes
and I can't run more than a few steps without tiring
I'm a dancer but I gasp for air after
every performance
and my mouth tastes of pennies
I will never climb Mt. Everest
or smoke a single cigarette
I will not live in Beijing or own a cat
or be a deep sea diver
the best thing
they will ever do for me
is whisper your name
Christine R Jul 2014
All I have now – all that is left –
is a handful of mementos that your fingertips lingered on
long ago; magnifying glass, old college notes...
How can that be all of you?
And I was given a sweater, itchy wool.
I never saw you wear it but I am told it was yours and so
like a child with a blanket I clutch at it, desperate for something.
It makes my skin crawl.

At your funeral it was so cold
and my feet were so numb standing in the snow and I thought
“Won’t you be cold there?”
I stepped forward and asked the funeral home director
for a yellow flower please.
I laid it on your coffin and hoped it would at least remind you of warmth.

I am told you are still “with us” and you “live on in our hearts”
If this is true I will lend you my heartbeat
and pump into you some of my blood
and my breath going in and out and in again and again.
My lungs can be strong enough for the both of us
since yours were not even strong enough for you.
This is for my grandfather who passed away from pulmonary fibrosis.
Ky Blackstar Apr 2015
When everyone around you is breathing smoke it is hard to keep your oxygen for yourself...and soon you are breathing their smoke while they are gasping for what little air you have left.
Braylee Beard Nov 2014
Stones are collecting in my stomach,
weighing me down to the depths.
I won't struggle this time.
I'm just too tired.
Let the water be my air.
Let me feel it in my lungs.
Meg May Be Dead Sep 2014
I caught myself
counting the





of your breath
The moment I knew I was in love with you
C S Cizek Jul 2014
I bent my toes over the tub
like talons on a sunbaked branch
and clenched the curtain
in my gloved hands.

I sprayed Tilex on a scouring
pad and scrubbed the black mold
riddling the ceiling and caulked
edges of the shower like leprosy.

My lungs filled with nitrogen,
oxygen, and argon as well as
sodium hypochlorite and hydroxide,
spores, and mycotoxins.

I staggered backwards, trying
to find solid ground but found
only a dazed, curtain-wrapped
fall to the cold linoleum below.
This has been my morning so far.
I had no clue
that standing in the room
screaming at the top of my lungs
would cause
no one to even acknowledge
my existence
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