Stubs Poem by Harrison Kirk

Sitting here,
alone.
All I see is
Stubs.

Left broken,
Lonely.
Lacking which makes whole.
Needing Nicotine's kiss,

That eternal bliss.

If only! Stubs cries
And
Conscious
Dies.

A death of thought.
The battle cry of memory
echoes in my head
But still Sulphur sucks,

Triggering my Nicotine
twitch.

Conscious knows the meaning of loss,
As synapses skew.
But my want is few,
At least without you.

Nicotine.

Our time burns too quick,
And my fingers slip
As I struggle to grip,
That smoke you spew.

And even if I choke
On that potent smoke.
I cannot find
A way to satisfy my mind.

Leaving me,
Wanting that tantalising
Toxic taste.
Your sulphurous smell.

And Nicotine's warming kiss.

But the brighter the flame,
The shorter you burn,
We end our game.

The flame is lost,
At such tragic cost.

You leave me a stub.

You stamp on my Heart
And turn the flame,
To coals.
Your heel grinds,
as you turn away,
and my existence eeks,
from beneath your feet.

Your footstep trauma
Echoes
Inducing drama,
Of the quick foot step
As I witness my own death
Where my heart turns to Tar,
The further from me you are

And my tears run hot,
as Sulphur sears that spot.

And now I'm left in the gutter,
where my soul drains
And my body shall surely follow

In haunted dreams of Nicotine sorrow.