you smell tulips
in the dusty cobwebbed corners
of your aging apartment,
when truly you are nothing but
thankful.
locked the rotting door
seeking solace from the clouds
of sheer addiction,
seeping into door cracks and
open windows.
they chant your name
echo it in mesmerising song
imploring you to just
try a puff, enjoy a little:
life isn't always.
but what is life
with blackened, shrivelled pickles
in substitution of
breathing, healthy lungs?
and a cancerous lust,
teeth begging to passionately nibble
the bitter end of cigarettes
for a bitter end.
and they all know.
they've always known.
yet they dig their own graves
smother them in flames
and bury themselves in scalding
ashes, marr their grinning bodies.
shape their physicalities,
alter their age, grow wrinkles
out of a healthy supply
of pungent smoke.
all in the name of relief
and fun
and excitement.
because death is indeed a bundle
of excitement.
you look back again,
ensuring your door really is locked
and you pray.
for a life of smokes is simply
an immortalised stage of youth,
a teenager, potent and bright resting
in the beds of the elderly.
and for a mere moment,
you picture your own aged face
smiling from beneath the ground.
you thank God for the tulips.
YOU ARE READING
It (#Wattys2016)
Poetry| 1st Place for Summer Sun Awards (Beginner's Firsts) | | 2nd Place for the Pinpoint Awards | | Finalist for the 2016 Awards | It matters not what people think regarding things you believe strongly in. Perhaps, it may even help to even spread...
