The Hands Of A Smoker

The Hands Of A Smoker short poem

Photo by quinn.anya

My nails chowed down and raw
from the fear of a life
that I have not really lived,
a life without purpose.

A cigarette sits between my lips,
holding it between my fingers
as if every drag I take will
make things a little clearer.

The ache you get through
your arm when you itch to hold someone’s hand.
The clicking of my knuckles
like breaking bones from years of bad habit.

The stories that await to be written
through my fingers, toying with my pen
when I’m stuck on what to write.
They crave to write till they are bruised.

However, at times my mind and my hands
don’t cooperate very well
and clouds of doubt
fill up the endless sky in my head.

My fingers dance over my keyboard
like a ballerina barely touching the ground
as she leaps across a stage.
Leaving a lasting impression
While I am left with is a few words strung together
for what will remain a forever unfinished poem.

Clenching my fists when
anger arises in my blood,
from years of boxing that has
stained my hands with fire and revenge.

Sweaty palms rubbed against my thighs
as my anxiety overtakes me
my fingers sit on the edges of my lips
ready for when the pace of the world gets too much

Although small, my hands comfort me
when I am at my worst
they support my smoking habit
how I’ve bitten my nails since the age of five

Because they know, I’d rather smoke
then wake up each morning
with scars, that show themselves to the world

So, here I am destroying the inside
instead of the out
Because, people can’t judge,
What they can’t see.

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