Remember my laugh
Not my struggle for breath
In the aftermath
Of my smoker's death.
Think of the children
I love beyond belief
And how I have saddled
Them with this grief.
And how, when it comes
To their wedding day,
I won't be there
To give my daughters away.
And when they cry
And are consumed by fears
I won't be there
To dry their tears.
And how these girls
I love like no other
Will be left in this world
Without their mother.
I rush to my grave
With incredible speed
All for the love
Of this noxious ****.

The pile of boxes
Lay at the end of the bed
She stands
Researching
Rehearsing
Each line he said

Her horizons
Endless, nameless
A story starting with her sun

She acted all day
Perfecting the play
Of forgotten summers

At night, her mind in transit
Musical interlude
Records spin on repeat
Arms stretching
Around every boy she meets

Staring
She looks at them now
Vinyl sleeves worn thin
Each song tells a story
Needle scratches
beneath her skin

She'll never forget his face
Feelings transcend time
But still the rock
keeps turning
Burning, forever

Telling tales of youth gone by
Eternally lost
In the orbit
of her mind's eye.

There are some
Who are fireworks
They light up the sky
Earn lots of "ooh"s and "ah"s

Then there are the flames
The ones who light the fireworks
Their job is important
They allow the fireworks to shine
Some notice them
But not many

And finally there are people like me
The matchsticks
Yes,
Just the wooden bit
We don't get noticed
We don't shine like the others
All we do
Is burn away
So others aren't burnt

We are useful
But not necessary
We don't dazzle
And we are easy to come by

In this world
Of fireworks

I find it ironic
How as a society who has decided that only cowards **** themselves
We continuously make the decision to do that which will only bring us to our own demise as a planet- as a whole.
We choose the easiest or most profitable option over the best option for our well being,
but it's okay because we haven't killed our selves...*yet.

graduated *** laude
with a PhD in madness,
practitioner of your
  own philosophy as
    a harbinger of doom,
tales of darkness where
the deck is always stacked,
what's the sense of light
   to a harsh night
or spring's flourish
   to winter's brashness,
you don't need to be
      a rocket scientist
    to diagnose absurdity

Everyone says My arms don't know how to hold you.