Cigarette Confessional

She draws with graphite

and charcol and pens

I draw with my words

that is all I know and have ever known. 

My grandma teaches me with

paints on her lap

I was a "messy painter," not a

"good artist."

I do not know where my words came from.

No one in my family knows

though they guess from the nightly

bedtime stories. But

I like to think

They are all mine.

I am selfish with them, just like my eyes

Blue and gray and green and gold

Came from two parents with eyes bland as coffee,

the same color too. But they say I stole them

from my grandpa on my dad's side. 

I steal a lot of things, or so they tell me.

Words, attitudes, accents, faces

So then I figured, why not a kiss?

Why not candy? Why not for snacks after school?

So I did, just to see if I could. 

I could. 

But after I passed on my skills which I had thought

were obvious, I grew guilty of these games.

I quit that, and my little bit of smoking,

to persue a career in theivery and lies

one that glorifies lies,

and uses stolen goods for the people's good

and I can only hope that they

oublier mes errours

and allow me to use my skills

for the good of them

and the world.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

Comments

Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression. Always let poetry fill your life. Keep expressing your heart.   

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