Craft My Wrongs

Today I smithed a poem to the scent of spices, Washing my beddings to allow a new sheet of habits, I come from a broken home so I’m careless with my affection, I am wasteful with my trust and I smoke cigarettes like I made them, I am Mozart on the piano but only with a pen, Every key I strike is a confession to my wrongs, This is how I breathe my faults through the vail of anonymity, Today I smithed a poem to the scent of the spices on mountains, It sounds like one I’d write hours before the sky starts crushing down, Before my skin turns cold and I see the stairs in the constellations, I feel like I would craft the Eiffel Tower with my palms, I am Mozart on the piano, But only with a pen.