Weary

Dealing with death as a young teen

Marlboro cigarettes spark the only
light I've become accustomed to.
I fidget a bic lighter between
calloused fingers in my left hand,

quivering the cancer stick with my right.
The temperature is hawkish tonight,
causing chills to run through my spine-
ghastly and full of adumbral remembrances.

Looking north the sky looks like death,
an eerie gloom blankets the skylines
horizon; another starless night with an
empty moon- typical. Raven feathers

circle my eyes, an insomniacs alibi I
guess. It is after midnight now, I
throw the cause for my blackened lungs
to the saturated grass and tiptoe back

through the half ripped screen door. My
bedroom door is splintered, the handle
is unable to lock these demons in. I can
only have an exorcism through my pen,

but I grow weary of writing inane suicide
notes and paragraph long journal entries.
I just miss your skin touching mine- I'll
never forget when your halo drowned in blood.

Author's Note

Any criticism is good and helps me grow.