After smoking my first pack
Of cigarettes
The novelty wore off pretty quick.
It didn’t feel cool anymore,
Didn’t make me feel important.
The cigarette was just something
To stick between my fingers,
**** between my lips,
Inhale and feel something
In my lungs.
A prop.
It was just a stick
With a red, smoldering ****,
A piece of tobacco
To play with before the ember
Ate way down to the filter
And singed my fingertips.

Now, I think I light up
Because the smoke is so
******* enticing.
It’s beautiful,
A kinesthetic work of art
like a ballet,
The way those silver
Tendrils curl so languidly
From the tip into the air,
So graceful, so smooth.
When I smoke
I can’t help but to imagine
I’m watching a group of dancers.

And I think I light up
Because there’s nothing better to do
Half the time and at least
It flouts the boredom
for a few minutes or so,
At least it interrupts the
Relentless monotony of Life.
Kurt Vonnegut mentioned
Something about smoking
Being a noble form of suicide-

Well, so it goes.

Human hearts are full of;
  golden sunflowers
  negative space
  sunken ships
  empty wine glasses
  sleepless nights
  deceased relatives
  cobwebs
  empty promises
  unshared secrets
  regrets

and the fingerprints of those
                                          who
                                            have
                                              broken
                                                *them.

look at your fingers.
extend & wiggle them.
look closer.
fingerprints.
not another person on earth
has the same ones as you.
you are alive.

m.f.

pounding temples
angry god(s)
boom like thunder
in my skull
sleep evades me
it's you that saves me
but dear,
your absence is hell

-m.f.