I have always been a prisoner
— Shackles around my wrists and ankles —
But it is the leather on my throat that confines me,
Bites my voice so I cannot speak,
Restricts my lungs so I cannot breathe.
You can paint them gold, but I can still see the strings,
All these prettied up strings, all wrapped around me.
Oh what an idea, to be free:
To have no chains on me.
Cigarettes
She smokes cigarettes and her eyes bleed red.
Sadness sits heavy on her skin like foundation
Mascara runs black down her cheeks like rain
She’s crying tears for a sadness she cannot pronounce
Hands sinking in her pockets while she contemplates madness
One inhale ignites the night
The cigarette isn’t the only thing that’s burning.
She’s burning up the world too.
Dreams go up in the smoke of that cigarette and faith falls to the floor with the ashes.
A single match to light up the world.
Just like it lit up her last cigarette.