Poetry:

Chain Smoker

I feel like cigarettes
Burning ash down to your finger tips
Eating me away from the inside

Your lips search my frets
Words that move my finger tips
To play the sharps and flats in my spine

And it's just as fine
I don't think you would even mind
To know where this is going
               Or where I will end

I see my mind through dirty tricks
Making roses from old smiling lips
Wilting on the inside

Your eyes sketch my paper
Tracing movements to my lips
Shading out the details

And it's better I am blind
I don't think I would even mind
To know why you are leaving
              Or why you never... And
I think it's best not to notice
The paper doll you left in my hat

I feel like cigarettes
An empty bud between your lips
You drag on my soul

I feel like cigarettes
Dirt between your finger tips
Throw me out when you're through

              Thomas A. McDonley © 2005