Poetry

[32/365]

Smoke by Kori | Written 2/1/17

Father.

Foolish me to think this man will change,

he’s better than David Copperfield,

he specializes in smoke and mirrors.

Me.

The bodega owner loves me,

I give him $104 a month.

I can’t resist nicotine.

Mother.

On this burning bridge I stay trapped,

you’ve set fire long ago,

but I hope one day you’ll change.

My lungs have adapted.

Me. Again.

I’ve become friends with darkness.

For eons I’ve been lonely.

It’s time for another cigarette.


I’m really inspired to do some spoken word poetry around New York City.

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4 thoughts on “[32/365]

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