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Nichole Wright Poem
I’m seventeen.
I have not smoked.
I attend my classes regularly.
I still haven’t gotten my permit.
I’m unattainable, and slightly unattractive.
The smoky fumes of the cigarette surround the air;
not from my mouth, but rather my mother’s.
She looks stressed as she puffs in and out the concentrated smoke.
Her forehead frowns beneath a soft smile.
I have not lived her life.
She has not lived mine.
I feel her frustrations now
and worries.
My lips now touch the same burning cigarette.
Copyright © Nichole Wright | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Nichole Wright Poem
I stayed in this house,
Where wilted leaves blanket the lawn.
Dust particles dance around the purified air
like the fantasy fairies I imagined when I was young.
The sun rays came from the small kitchen window,
illuminating the metal trash can
filled with rotten foods and faith.
I look up,
breathing the polluted air in and out my flaring nostrils.
I know I cannot stay here.
Its not good for a growing body like mine, I say,
as I lay on the cluttered linoleum floor,
while maggots crawl up my body
and down my spine.
Copyright © Nichole Wright | Year Posted 2025
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