Nicotine Poet
The inside of my knuckles,
Between the middle and index finger,
Burn like hell.
This cigarette has drawn an ash,
Longer than I could draw a line
Upon a piece of paper.
I'm afraid,
To inch my hand anywhere near it.
This keyboard,
It's so god damn clean.
Is it necessary to create such a mess,
Upon the place my hands work?
While the canvas,
The bright screen,
Remains clean?
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