Smoking
French
poetry whore
cigarettes
o n e,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
i wet my lips,
i puff—
frail
particles of
d i f f u s e d
s m o k e
S
d u
n m e r
u r
o
i bat my eyelids,
i stare away.
and puff—
o n e
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
still no
words, yet
i perceive
some
d a r k
v e r s e
s m o k e
has subtly
embraced
— p o s s e s s e d —
my f e a t h e r e d
d r e a m s
and,
while
i type
a widowed
v e r s e —
for a poem
i may
have dreamed—
but will
never, in ink,
b i r t h
smoking
French
poetry whore
cigarettes
o n e,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
a drunken
song
waltzes
around
i n
m y
h e a d
“they’re not good for you.
he’s not good for you.
stop wasting
y o u r
b r e a t h
a w a y
remember—
smoking
ain’t good
for
the
l i v i n g .”
i n h a l e.
e x h a l e.
s m o k i n g
o n e ,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
a
subtly
s o o t h i n g
d a r k ,s m o k e d
v e r s e
e
s m
e m e b
c r
a
dear readers,
i am quite delighted
to share some good news with you,
as my poem "nightsong"
has just been published by
Spillwords
you can check it here:
feel free to like it
if you feel so inclined 🤍
i take this chance
to thank you all for your support—
it really warms my heart and poetic soul
to see you follow, read,
like and comment on my poems
oh! I almost forgot
you can also follow me on IG:
@lannazeescribbles
i may not be the most
active of IG poets
but I'll be delighted
to see
you
t
h
e
r
e
🤍
with much poetic love
Anna (LannaZ)
wording wondrous wreckage
imagining feasts of rhyme
and lusting after
verse-full fancy
ty p i ng
t
h
e
e
n
n
u
i
a w a y
through burgundy
written
stanzas
as
the
drama
Queen
she
wasn’t
meant
to
be
.
.
.
y e t — s h e ' d b e c o m e
.
.
.
and
then
she closed
her eyes
p
r
e
t
e
n
d
i
n
g
n o t h i n g
h a d
e v e r
h a p p e n e d
wandering
around,
drunk
in summer scents—
so thoughtlessly,
yet meaning
to get
lost—
in your green
wilderness,
i try to
escape
this grey and
never-ending
urban foliage
dreaming of
a summer forest—
forever
home
for my
adoptive
tree
You hit me /
Immense high /
Dried ginger clouds
Mischievously
Embrace me /
While I float away
I n g o d l y
S o u n d s c a p e /
I start
Sliding down
To viscous darkness /
Engulfing me /
U n a w a r e /
Faintly blurring away
Y o u r t r u e
E x i s t e n c e /
Hopelessly
I hit
The ground /
And dive into
The murkiest
Depths
I ’ v e e v e r
I n h a b i t e d /
Junkie dwarfs
Deftly conceal
Your
Exit
plan /
To my blankly
S i l e n t
E y e s /
I’m certain
You will
Never
Say
Sorry /
For those games
Y o u
P l a y e d /
You were Pure
Heroine /
And into
That gutter /
I do not want /
Again /
T o fall /
W i l l i n g l y /
One last
Poetic killer
Card
You hide /
As again /
Y o u h i t m e
V e r s e - l e s s l y /
You
A r e n o w
G o n e / I /
A m n o w
G o n e /
B o t h b u t f a i n t
S m o k e /
Of w h a t
W e
O n c e
W e r e/
W h a t
C o u l d /
H a v e /
B e e n /
/ I
Am
Ever
So /
Sorry /
F o r
O u r
L o s s / / /
P.S.
I resurrected /
That is
The epilogue
Your literary eyes
Will
Never
G e t t o
R e a d /
So /
As
I start
Combatively
Writing
M y
O w n
H i s t o r y /
I stop
Mourning
Us /
And
Become /
T h e h e r o i n e
i n m y o w n
S t o r y /
I n s t e a d
she wears
a pink dress
to hide
her petulant
d a r k n e s s
turbulently staring
as if she’d been living
the dream and was now
anxiously grasping for
b r e a t h
when she finds out
about reality
she starts
walking the walk—
those platform
s h o e s
the ones that
so very
silently
hurt her
slim
a n k l e s
towering
over his thoughts,
pink-stained,
so very
badly
e n c l o s e d
In the yet to be
unmasked
confines
of his
i m a g i n a t i o n
i write
on your page
slightly tickling
your skin
with a
white
f e a t h e r
dipping my finger
into the porcelain
inkwell—
so delicately
moist with
i n d i g o
i n k
my soft
strokes very
lightly caress
the most sensitive
creases
on your
p a g e
i take my
dripping finger,
full of sensuous thirst,
and autograph
some verse bites
on your back
c o v e r
and all night long
i keep writing
free rhymes
until you
drunkenly
fall
a s l e e p
no need
for more words
as smudged ink
reveals i am about
to lose a bird
of my own
f e a t h e r
so long,
writing lover
of mine—
here is one last
indigo ink
tickle
for your
g o o d n i g h t
p o e t i c
d r e a m s
LannaZee 