*WARS ON CIGARETTES*
I hear myself breathe,
and try to remember the rhythm of yours.
A flame flickers miserably,
waiting to be put out
when aid arrives
flapping its wings in zest and stupidity.
The desire of the moth to get burnt,
I don't comprehend.
When I do try
returning to your voice,
time tells me why.
my being shall turn into a predator,
your silence it chooses to prey on,
its pretty abundance.
Tonight you come.
You begin to speak
and it's my turn to burn.
I dare to ask where were you all this while.
You laugh it off, say,
refugees aren't meant to stay.
My mouth flaunts a reek,
bizarre, yours does too.
Lovers' lies have always stunk.
Gliding my hand across,
the ashtray is found.
Cigarettes burn my throat, you my skin.
As I devour yet another, I watch you sit.
You bite your lips and cross your legs,
in unison we let out a sigh
for the ashes is now the moth.
We stare at walls
screeched off paint,
the reason fingernails ache.
Our tongues taste sultry,
the smoke gets me high.
Through it all
you look beautiful still.
I run my thoughts swift
like hookers my hair,
and swallow my words brisk
like they my sweat.
The gulps get stuck,
on Bukowski I choke.
I listen you tell-
to you it only felt love.
And I fucking smirk.
Battles are lame.
It was the goddamn war, darling.
And so I succumbed on battlefields barren
like vultures on a hunt.
Watching you leave, the haze then clears.
Our bodies last touched
when oblivion was a stranger.
Now at dusks and dawns,
it sings fables of our names, dead,
my best friend.
crystal clear is decorated with cracks,
and here I stand stripped naked,
smoking, waiting to be clothed,
written, my poetry too.
People fall in love with people,
and they say it is a war.
Ohh, tell me sweetheart,
whom do you fight when you fall for ghosts?
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! ~
- Rudyard Kipling, "If"
I want to ask you to leave. To desert this open field that I am in before the flowers grow and wilt. But I can't. I choose not to. Because deep within the chambers of this heart, a part of me begs for you to stay.
I want to believe that ours is like the coffee– bittersweet. That we can laugh and scream at each other but we will always end up cuddling under the night sky. You, tracing the stars. I, smiling at the moon.
I want to believe that we can sing our differences away and find common ground in love. That we can dance, barefoot, amid the prickly grass. My head on your shoulder, your arms round my waist.
I want to believe. I want to. I want.
Read but Never Written
And then one day
I woke up and I realized
I wasn't talking to a mirror
I wasn't even talking to a human being
I was conversing with a rock
An immovable stone
A black hole
A hundred tatooes on a cracked wall
Scribbled with a million letters
Then covered with glitter
That lose their meaning
Read but never written
Change was all you ever talked of
In your letters to God
With the words you told your friends
And promises you made to stars
Change was what you told me
When you should have been asleep
Words in the wind
Just more tears in the ocean
Another leaf in the forest
One more sand in the desert
Were all they were
Are all they would ever be
Read but never written
So go back to sleep
Things are more beautiful in your dreams
Put back the letters in a bottle
And throw them back in the stream
Crocodile tears into your pillow sheets
There's noone left who will believe
Unlearn the love you never knew
And teach how to never follow through
Then when you come back here
Like I know you will always do
Will always be
Read but never written
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me. ~
- Pablo Neruda, Your Feet