The pale pleasure.

The first time you do it,
It hurts.
Hurts the soft palate,
Burns the lungs.
The pale shaft of pleasure.
Entering my mouth -- like a cave,
And my lungs,
The enchanted caverns beneath.
Its fabricated taste,
Its effect.

The pale pleasure feels best
Right when I'm done --
Down to the fingertips
And toes.
Although the ashy taste in my mouth
Signifies the brand I'm
Now tainted with,
I'm always left wanting -- begging for more.
Addiction, disease.
The small death
From the taste of pleasure.

i want to figure out why smoking is so sexy to me, even if it's not to you. so i wrote this. working with metaphors.
wrote this a long time ago, trying to fix it. suggestions?

Materialism.

Can't rescind harsh words.
Cancer billows from my lips.
Immaturity.
Drenched in rain, quintessential.
Breathe it down into your lungs.

I want to taste it, hear it, feel it. Life...

Maybe if I die,
I'll feel like I felt alive.
I'm not extreme. But -
Maybe I'll drive fast enough,
Or scream loud enough to know.

New poetry form for me: Tanka. I'm not emo or suicidal. FYI.

What is going on?

God is crying on me.
His tears bead on my skin,
Cling to my eyelashes.
I slam the door to escape (from what?),
And barbaric sounds emerge
From my strained* throat.

I stand, waiting for my turn.
No time left, I turn to depart.
Say goodbye, please, say it.
I turn, and nothing stops me.
Dazed, in a trance, numb -
I don't get a turn at the watering hole.

Suddenly, I'm in it -
Gasping, liquid filling my lungs.
I'm not intoxicated, but
Which way is up?
Opening my eyes stings,
All I see are bubbles.

Where am I?



*looking for a word that means "previously unused but now is used" preferably with a connotation of now out of date, rusted, not smooth.







what the fuck.

"Must Be"

There must be blood
Rushing to my fingertips
For my hands have ridges
Like little hills.

And the snow above -
The white, clenched knuckles -
Is a sign of restraint.
I must not let go.

There must be blood
Rushing to my brain
For my cheeks are red
Like a field of posies.

And the brook or stream -
The one trickling from my eye -
Is a sign of embarrassment.
I do not know what to say.

There must be blood
Rushing from me
For I am lightheaded - dizzy -
And you caused it.

And the red on your sleeve
Must be my blood - you've cut me.
(Maybe it's not blood at all.
But you have indeed cut me.)

still not sure about the last line.

A Book of Answers

Someone told me I should write a book of questions -
I guess it seems I have a lot of them -
Questions, however, exist to perplex,
So I - alternatively - wish that I could write a book of answers.
This book would be the new fountain of youth -
What all have been waiting for - searching for.
But I do not aspire to greatness.
Rather, truth.
Yes.
And maybe that fact - that simple word -
Is the reason for all of my endeavors -
The reason I argue hour upon hour,
Praying that I exposed it.
The artifact deliberately unearthed,
Brushed and prodded,
Studied and archived,
If I reveal - discover - one single truth in my moment,
It will not have been a wasted moment -
I will not have wasted a moment
Searching for that invaluable artifact -
My legacy -
My contribution.
But it's not about me.
Rather, truth.
I regress.