American Spirits

There was a month where I smelled like cigarettes.
     You were the month that I tasted like misplaced jokes,
                                        who's punch-line snaked around my jaw;
your teeth did all the running while the blood walked down my throat.

                                                                                                       Sitting.

Waiting for the filters to burn out so we could really start hurting again and not have to pretend anymore.

 

I'm too tired for this
I'm too high for myself
Is this for pity or for the way you flick your ash into the concrete
I don't know, I never did.

 

 

This is losing whatever meaning anyone decides to give it
     I can't see the words with your pupils in the way
                                       Look at me please I know they won't grow
I wont ever tear my eyes away.

 

All I can hope is that you think of me at the bottom of your prescriptions
                                                          

                                                                    I know I think of you at the tops of mine;

 

there's just something about full bottles that makes me want to
     tear off all my clothes, tearing my thoughts away,

                                                       for as long as moments allow themselves to be moments

 

It wont be long but it's better than nothing.

This poem is about: 
Me
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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