I read my first entry to this blog today or last night, and it's a poem. I like it because of it's simplicity, and truth really. I wonder if I am able to this again.
***
I sit, always in my backyard. There is always this time I make for myself.
Peace through the routined nostalgia of having a smoke at night.
I breathe the cool air, as each inhale intoxicates my lungs with debris.
So little.
So little.
I pollute myself in the tiniest, yet ever so consistent methods,
I wonder if this is the only way in which I might accept myself.
Conflicting moments where comfort meets uncomfortable realities.
I desire the things which in the long and short term,
dehabilitiate me.
Plucking the bumps on my skin,
Malnourishing myself,
I contradict any notion of health that
I encourage myself to follow through.
Buy another pack.
Smoke 25 more cigarettes.
I watch as my puddling ashtray grows in these winter months.
It reassures me that I have not grown
away and apart from all that I have been.
The only thing I know of myself is my past.
My advice,
your past does not, and cannot dictate to you
who you are.
For as each moment that passes, brings a you into the new.
Yet, I have more cigarettes to smoke.
And a world without routine is a world,
my world, in chaos.
May peace b'wit'ye.
Love, Shakespeare.
