I’m seventeen.
I have not smoked.
I attend my classes regularly.
I still haven’t gotten my permit.
I’m unattainable, and slightly unattractive.
The smoky fumes of the cigarette surround the air;
not from my mouth, but rather my mother’s.
She looks stressed as she puffs in and out the concentrated smoke.
Her forehead frowns beneath a soft smile.
I have not lived her life.
She has not lived mine.
I feel her frustrations now
and worries.
My lips now touch the same burning cigarette.
Cigarette Smokers
In a world tainted by pollution and smog you're adding to the problem
Please don't think for a second that electric cigarettes will solve them
Cigarettes wouldn't be half bad if they just took the smoker out
It isn't fair that it kills those who wouldn't put one to their mouth
Parents smoke but would brake out in a rage if their children tried
What if each pack kept up with the growing number who died
Each smoker fails to realize what they smell and look like
The x-rays of their lungs to the doctors must be a horrible sight
They should ask themselves if this nasty habit is worth dying over
Are they recognizing with each puff their calling death much closer
What ingredients makes up the tobacco anyway
I heard rat poison makes up some of it so is that ok
Who's worse, neighborhood drug dealers or the tobacco company
They both make money from the lives they take if you're asking me
It’s whispers.
Can you hear them?
I don’t want to,
but they force me to.
Sitting in an empty room,
with no one—
just a cigarette in my hand.
Every time it touches my lips,
it kills me
and makes me want to avoid it—
I know that cigarette is not good for me,
but I like doing something
I know is going to kill me.
But he likes that I do that—
killing myself, he whispered to me,
saying, “Can we switch places?”
I said, “How can I get into the wall?
You are a shadow.”
But how…
I was talking to a shadow
in a room
completely empty and dark.
The whispers say to me:
“Look at me.
Look at the darkness,
and feel both sides of it
that you don’t think exist.”
I thought something was wrong.
I kept hearing him
until he said:
“Come closer…
to someone else in the room,
because my name isn’t dead.”
When I turned on the light,
I saw nothing
but my shadow dancing in front of me,
my body frozen, watching.
And when I looked back,
something was coming out of the wall
with a cigarette,
saying to me:
“I like doing something
I know is going to kill me."
On a warm, dew-weakened day,
Watching the grey void of a lost
Sense, anxious moments recline
On whiffs of ancestral propitiations
When rafters regain possession of
Filched roast fish, balanced with
The fumes of a wild dance heckled
By chokes of a chagrined weekend.
Who rises faster than smokes of a
Low tar, ascending
Gently,
Whimsically,
Lazily,
With rings of white life
Extinguished through banalities,
Through clamoured waste? . . .
Such rise — gay, sensuous rise
Of the thin beam,
Goes with every thread of meaning
Long since posted on the banner of
Meaningful dreams.
Just one more taste.
Just one more hit.
How I miss your smoky, ashy, charred aroma, that taste.
Your smoky, ashy, charred aroma haunts me, begging me to take one hit.
Just one more inhale.
That smoky, ashy, charred aroma, taste of that rebellious girl I once knew.
Been coughing lately out of breath with regrets
Asthma? Emphysema? Bully pest upsets
My arms akimbo
at foul passing nimbo
Suffering succotash, I need a cigarette!
unhealthy this obsession of mine
that asks you to use me at your will,
the room is glowing red and-
can hide your imprints on my neck
unhealthy this obsession of mine
to be burned by your touch,
your cigarette against my skin
and its smoke filling up my lungs
unhealthy this obsession of mine
to be deserted and left in ruins
your teeth biting into my skin
not everyone can see love through pain
Pass me the cigarette
She who I thought will stay
Gone long back
Me who now is a fall guy
What life has in store anymore
Who knows
But who cares
The angel has returned to paradise
So pass me the cigarette
In the process of becoming Steve Jobs
I became Steve Harrington
You can call me voat
Cause I am the villain of all time
So brother pass me the cigarette
Let's do some self harm
All I got now is words
Also everything that I wanna say
Got ruined by my words
Oh fyodor
I know my crime
I know my punishment
I am guilty
So pass me the cigarette
I am a writer
So give me the lighter
Let me smoke words
And let me see my poem in ashes
Pass me the cigarette
the sharp cry of metal scrapping flint sets you ablaze,
combustion, turning oxygen and nicotine into ash in my mouth,
I want to kiss you my dear,
I want to breath you in and fill my lungs to the brim
with your choked up hope
I want to wait and see,
believe with every part of me,
that when i finish this stint,
things might be different,
that this next drag might lag that aching hole,
and one day soon I might feel whole
I see the shadow of the smoke
In the morning light after I woke.
Lucky Strikes was his cigarette
Soothing his nerves from what he could expect
He had been at war since ‘43
And his War story had been something to see
It was his unit’s turn for the front line
And he knew the next weeks would not be kind
The sergeant called break and they went to ground
And with his friends they gathered around
He took his Lucky Strikes from his pocket
And slowly opened the wrapper of the packet
There had been other battles that he made it through
Not wanting to jinx himself he knew what to do
One of the cigarettes was taken out
And he reversed it in the packet for luck it was about
He would leave this cigarette to last one
Wanting to be alive to smoke means he won.
© Paul Warren Poetry
I am that slender lady in sexy white sheets,
my figure is smoking hot when my body touches the heat.
I’ll give you moments of pleasure and a fill of nicotine,
but around your healthy lungs I’ll weave my tricotine
I am a silent killer
causing deadly disease,
but people ignore the warnings and signs of expertise.
I am the international
loved by all my fans,
I’ll send them to the graveyard in polished caravans.
I am those smokey rollies the filthy cigarette,
you’ll find me on every shelve I am not that hard to get.
She comes across the screen dancing her boots off.
Kicking and carousing, showing us her sexy legs.
She is the Old Gold Cigarette Girl of course!
Men were men back in the sixties,
But women were “girls” – it put them on their children’s level
Because men could not take the vote back.
I asked the owl:
“What is love?”
She said to me:
"Ask God."
I asked God:
“What is love?”
He said:
“Ask your wife.”
I asked my wife:
“What is love?”
She replied with a smile:
«Ask the owl»
I smoked a cigarette and left the city behind.
J’ai demandé à la chouette :
« Qu’est-ce que l’amour ? »
Elle m’a dit :
« Demande à Dieu. »
J’ai demandé à Dieu :
« Qu’est-ce que l’amour ? »
Il m’a répondu :
« Demande à ta femme. »
J’ai demandé à ma femme :
« Qu’est-ce que l’amour ? »
Elle m’a répondu en souriant :
« Demande à la chouette »
J’ai fumé une cigarette et ai laissé la ville derrière moi.
What you said
Vs1
My hands are shaking
I light another cigarette
My heart is breaking
I wish i could forget
What you said to me
What you did to me
What you mean to me
Oh oh what you mean to me
Vs2
My eyes are heavy
I pour another drink
My stomach churning
I just don't wanna think
What you said to me
What you did to me
What you mean to me
Oh oh what you mean to me
Vs3
My head is aching
I pick up the phone
My body shaken
I can't be alone after
Whatyou saidto me
What you did to me
I don't know what it means
I don't know what it means
Bridge
Trading one addiction for five more
I just don't wanna cry
I'm falling down to the floor
That's when i decide
I don't want to die
Vs4
Self medication
No it will not be the cure
Heart palpitations
I just have to endure
What you said to me
What you did to me
What you mean to me
How could you just leave
How could you just leave
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