cigarette smoke

poetry

I can’t take the silence

Whether it be sparks burning out in a conversation meant for 2, or the weight of anticipation pushing my face closer to their feet. All while I battle with the mischevious monster which happens to go by the name of Anxiety.

I can’t take the silence. The type, not even cigarette smoke can fill. All we can do is throw meaningless words that will only indent the fading clouds but never the mind.

So I talk and I talk because I’m scared if I stop, my heart may just beat out of my chest-
and on their shoes…

I can’t take the silence, but everyone else can. And the eyes that surround me, they scare. physical symptoms convincing you that their judgment is towering over you. as their shadow grows larger and more ferocious-
As the conversation continues

I can’t take the silence,
but everyone else can.

Barefeet and broken glass

poetry

I shared the tips of my fingers
Caressed them deep into your scars
So that even the parts which hurt the most
Can feel warmth

I shared the mane blooming from my mind
and wrapped it tightly around your fist
So that with every move I make
The tug will remind me
of you

I shared my aching neck
burdened with holding the weight of my thoughts
As daydreams of you taunt the sun
and fantasies drift with the moon

I shared the last of my innocence
Gave up the crown and glass slipper
Because I’d rather share a typewriter
And tiptoe barefoot around the broken glass of whiskey

I shared my heart; palpitations, pain, and all
And although cliches have never been my thing
It’s yours- naked and afraid.

Beneath the sun

poetry

I was filled to the top, water overflowing off the edge
Then someone pulled the plug
Just to watch me tornado through the drain
with only a puddle lingering its last breath

I fell for what felt like eternity
through narrow somber pipes camouflaged in grime and filth
Absorbing bits and pieces along the way

I became polluted beyond filtration
water, not even a pig would drink
My thoughts became contaminated as I squeezed my sanity tight
Waiting for my end. Beckoning the end.

Alone, plummeting in perpetual solitude
As my delusions filled the gaps the sewage failed to grab hold of
Falling through loops and turn, some would claim as fun
But in the darkness, this rollercoaster was just a trunk ride to the unknown

Finally, a light shone, minuscule but bright
And the sludge I became, spilled beneath the sun
Falling into open water, where all those polluted created a home
And although I miss that pearl tub, I could never relive that ride

Moulded, wave after wave with others scarred from the shadowy pipes
But together we became an ocean
and all our filth became one
Waiting to comfort the next victim tumbling beneath the sun

Him

poetry, Uncategorized

His smiles so bright, a comfort I cannot describe
Like the fumes from gasoline, rearing me into a high
But ultimately, I know, he’ll do nothing but harm
And I’ll float down from cloud 9 right into his shadowy arms

His eyes so relaxing, a calmness like the sea
But the deeper I look into them, the harder it is to breathe
And as the waves push me further from the land I desire
I am slowly dragged downwards into his underwater empire

His hands filled with warmth, a touch that sends shockwaves through my veins
But you can never have lightning, without the undeniable rain
And as I look around for shelter, I’m surrounded by trees
The biggest bait to nature’s electric masterpiece

Once the storm has calmed, and I lye drenched and afraid
From nowhere, there he is, carrying an umbrella with my name
I smile because he came, even though it was too late
And I fall back into the cycle, because somehow, it is worth the rain.

Roulette

poetry

You kept telling me I had talent, waiting to burst out of my skin
You said I was royalty, and your honour to be king
You said my brain was filled with colour, seeping out of my ears
And every time I spoke, passion poured out like tears

But then you told me I was fruitless, my mind just a wastefill
You told me there were hundreds like me,  a blueprint you could build
You burned my paper crown and sucked the passion from my words
Then showered me in guilt as you continued your purge

Then you told me you were sorry, it was all in your head
You said your past haunts you and sleeps under your bed
You said you loved me, as flames circled us like prey
Then threatened to lose balance unless I chose to stay

The worst of it all, is because of my refusal,
You spun the roulette of emotions and anger filled your pupils
So I pulled up my anchor and gently sailed away
As you brewed storm’s to follow that still chase me till this day

9 Lives

poetry, Uncategorized

Curiosity killed the cat
But the cat had nine lives
After curiosity was fulfilled
Lust ran through his mind
He explored the neighbourhood
In search for pussy of his kind
Then promiscuity killed the cat
But the cat had eight more lives
So the cat learned from his mistakes
And left his cravings behind
After being scarred from desire
All he ever had was time
He chewed the fur around his nails
The cat knew he needed a vice
So he chose alcohol to kill the memories
but his organs paid the ultimate price
So Jack Daniel’s killed the cat
But the cat had seven more lives
So he went on an adventure
For himself, he wanted to find
But he was not prepared
And the people were not kind
So the cold took hold,
As he slept beneath the pines
Hypothermia killed the cat
But the cat had six lives left
The only option to being broke
Was resorting to theft
So his stomach became full
But his criminal record was next
Cops snatched him up
In his self-twined net
Prison killed the cat
But the cat had five lives left
Once he got out,
He had to make up for lost time
But employers turned him away
And his family was unkind
So all he had left
Were gangs with coloured cloths
So he bought himself a gun
And his first deal got him shot
So a pistol killed the cat
But the cat had four more lives
Scarred from brain to toe
He couldn’t keep dying inside
His head ran in circles
Searching for something he couldn’t find
A cycle unbroken unless he finally called it quits
So he stepped atop the 50-foot ledge
And stared down at his bliss
He squinted his eyes shut with a smile on his face
As he released all his tension, his balance lead the way
Until the final fall, the cat had good intentions
Bribed by societies need for ascension
Sanity was all the cat had kept
But none of it matters,

Because the cat has 0 lives left.

Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?

poetry

Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?
How a smile so radiant can hide a shadow so dark
Or a cigarette so deadly forms smoke like rising art
Withered rose pedals beginning to stray,
A truthful view of beauties habit never to stay
A book ripped and ruined from reading in every corner
But that decayed book tells more than one story
Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?
Sacrificing our health for memories we won’t remember
Laughing at the vulnerability of a man so tender
The quick rush of adrenaline, never worth the guilt
Or the degrading experiences ruining the persona you’ve built
The undying love for a man drowning in his own vanity
And the euphoria before hitting the brink of insanity
Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?

Bukowski

perspective

He burns, under my skin.
all three fucking layers;
physically, mentally and spiritually.

You want to play the guilt game? Well I can play it too.

You can’t keep wrapping silk around the wounds you caused.
You can’t cover up your harsh words with letters of love.
You can’t throw a pity party as your optimistic thoughts dance to their deaths.
You can’t sharpen your nails like spears then try to caress me.

And you can’t fix the paranoid love you ripped to shreds with your own insecurities.

And yea, I will happily keep reading Bukowski with a glass of red in my hand.

Be yourself

perspective

Just a worn out face with wine-stained lips and cigarette breathe. I will never stop laughing at my young naïve self for thinking life would be a soft stroke of paint, preparing for a masterpiece to be revealed.

Instead my brush broke through the canvas and the paint was splattered all over the floor. So I kept trying to paint new pieces,  narrowing this image in my head. Craving to create something better, something worth wall space.

Somewhere down the line, I realized I cannot pretend and imitate, cannot trace and colour in-the-lines. At the end of the day, that beautiful mess on the floor is me; the chaos and ruin will always be me.

It defines me

That is what raw art is right?

Something you never want to look at, but cannot keep your eyes off of.

Just another post about anxiety

Thoughts

Even when the path I walk upon is exactly what I’ve been searching for; one which can open into a wide road filled with signs leading the way, I still find a reason to stop dead in my tracks. I am somehow attracted to trails surrounded by quick sand and land mines. They never end up killing me, just leave a few wounds that can make a person squint in disgust.

Even if the rough soles of my converse step onto a path of soft silk with fields of open space and hazy pink skies, nothing will seem real. I end up looking around and around; over the hills and under rocks, sometimes forcefully stubbing myself on the pines of an evergreen as an excuse to run the other way. Maybe rip out the begonias to dissect their roots for something, anything to make me think this is too good to be true.

And as I play the world’s worst treasure hunt, I find myself lost again. I end up straying too far from the path and lose my sense of direction. Lonely, lost and looking for a new path. One of decency and comfort, but nothing better than what I think I deserve.
The only problem is,
Being lost is starting to feel more comforting than following a path.