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Literature Text
I think a cigarette would best help
to describe how i feel,
I'd sit on my patio with my legs drawn
up under me, I'd lean against something
in the grey damp of november
and I'd smoke and let tears fall
as i watch the air
for invisible particles.
paricles of smoke, city grime and of me.
watch the sky for a bomb
smoke
draw and let the tears itch and dry
on my cheeks
that would be the end of detached me,
and I'd burn it and inhale,
how appropriate,
and the taste would stay with me,
my hands my hair, acrid.
to describe how i feel,
I'd sit on my patio with my legs drawn
up under me, I'd lean against something
in the grey damp of november
and I'd smoke and let tears fall
as i watch the air
for invisible particles.
paricles of smoke, city grime and of me.
watch the sky for a bomb
smoke
draw and let the tears itch and dry
on my cheeks
that would be the end of detached me,
and I'd burn it and inhale,
how appropriate,
and the taste would stay with me,
my hands my hair, acrid.
Literature
That Punk Rock Feeling
She walks down the street,
Headphones in her ears.
Angry music playing loudly,
To keep away her tears.
Her hair is short and messy,
Her black polish is chipped.
Her combat boots thump loudly,
Her goodwill jeans are ripped.
She likes her rough fashion,
Ahough she hates her face.
It masks her emotions,
Her hearts delicate as lace.
Yet she grins at passersby,
Who stare with pure disgust.
She leaves them speechless,
Coverde in her dust.
Literature
Insomnia
I'm conscious. I'm conscious.
I'll always be conscious.
I'm not just not sleeping but I'm so God damn conscious.
I can't close my eyes because my ears are alive
They cradle the sounds that sound just like light
I'm conscious. I'm conscious.
It's dark and I'm conscious.
Sensations are sounds that keep me awake
Gnawing my nerves to make me insane
Rattling feelings to wake up my brain
Hours of awareness that bring on the pain
I'm conscious. I'm CONSCIOUS.
Can't you tell that I'm CONSCIOUS?!
Hurting in places that don't have a name
Insomnia throbbing like night pounding rain
If I could close my eyes I'd be alright again
If I could
Literature
To Be a Punk
Remove The Glitter from your Face
Replace it with a Smear of Dirt
Remember, it's not about Lace,
It's not about Hurt.
Self-Sufficient Survival In a Spined Shell
Necessary Denizens of a Self-Created, Wondrous Hell
Fire-Rust, Acid-Paint, Bleeding Beauty from the Hole-Punch Piercings
Metal, Flesh, Cloth, Scraped Knees and Brazen hearts.
It is not your Safety Pins, it is not your Skulls
It is not your Leather Glitzpunk Dolls
It's a Way.
Path.
Road.
It is an Awareness and a Bravery in its own Right.
It's not Glitz.
It's Embedded in Wit
The realization that Our Mortal Coil is a Malleable Thing
Push a needle through the skin, add an
Suggested Collections
cigarette. submitted to poetry.com, with typos
© 2004 - 2024 personaldecay
Comments33
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I like this poem a lot
And you know, I understand why people thing smoking is bad. It's like a slow suicide. But I also think if someone wants to smoke, you should just let them, rather than giving them the same guilt trip about their health that everyone else gives them XD You know? Man, I can only imagine how sick smokers must get of hearing that...
And you know, I understand why people thing smoking is bad. It's like a slow suicide. But I also think if someone wants to smoke, you should just let them, rather than giving them the same guilt trip about their health that everyone else gives them XD You know? Man, I can only imagine how sick smokers must get of hearing that...