I’ve ceased smoking regularly.

I don’t feel the urge to anymore,

Except on certain occasions

When a mood strikes my fancy

Like how sulfur strikes a match.
I’m still anxious though.

I bite my nails until they’re gone

And then I gnaw my fingers.

As long as my mouth is fixated,

My nerves don’t seem so broken down.
I’ll surely die of a heart attack.

If I’ve quit too late: cancer.

Regardless, my chest constantly hurts

And I keep looking to the sky,

Wondering how many clouds I made.




I took six painkillers in six hours last night,
though I’ve never been prescribed anything.
My friend says he’s got some great “stuff” coming in,
as good as the last “stuff”.
He always says that,
I always tell him we’ll see.
I’ve got a half empty bottle of gin on my counter,
I’ll need a new one tonight.
Or I’ll have to walk to the bar,
Not an easy four hundred feet for my two feet,
but not the first time I’ve managed.
I’ve got an empty coffee cup
to the right of three empty energy drinks.
I don’t get jittery anymore,
just awake.
I’ve got a pack of cigarettes in my car,
my jacket, my backpack, my nightstand,
my work desk, my garage, my other jacket,
my bathroom, and above the fridge,
just in case.

My friend says I don’t understand addiction,
because I’ve never done heroin.
Perhaps I don’t,
but I still chuckle whenever he says it.