A Weight of its Own

I used to feel an aching sorrow
in my chest
as if every mistake I had ever
made had been piled on top
of me

and although I have since been
relieved of that weight
I do no feel light
I do not feel free
Like a soaring bird heading
to find warmth

all I feel is anticipation
for a journey to a
destination I am still
uncertain of
and that is a weight
of its own

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Mourning

We buried them with our tears

Their silent sorrows muffled by our cries

As we painted pictures in the night sky

With drops of blood from our finger tips

 

Cigarette Houses

Cigarette houses in concrete jungles wait patiently for 9:15,

when the caffeine surges through the dark veins of civilians

desperately searching for a pick-me-up.

Baristas brew dark roast coffee,

its texture as clear as mud,

its flavor bold and vivacious,

its taste as homey and hearty as Peet’s

served in an oversized cup in the afternoon on an Autumn day.

Citizens trudge through Ashtray Road,

their faces lined with sleepless hours,

their capillaries purple and black from withdrawal,

their hands violently shaking.

The need overcomes the inhabiters,

their stomachs twisting, acidic,

filled with rancid ingredients shoved down their digestive  tracts.

Smoke fills their lungs with a reason to stop,

a reason to breathe free air

and sing without a rasp and a constant guttural tone.

They realize their flaws.

They notice their deadly imperfections,

their own death traps,

and yet they stop not for themselves

or their cigarette houses.

Still, they trudge on down the valley of ashes,

searching for their jolt,

the one simple pleasure that makes them feel alive,

they makes them feel real.

They prick their veins with caffeine needles

and feel the rush,

feel the power,

feel the warning signs.